


you fight and you talk

by merricats_sugarbowl



Series: emotionally stunted idiots [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Arguing, Gen, Getting Together, Les Amis Family, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Grantaire, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merricats_sugarbowl/pseuds/merricats_sugarbowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Of course it bothers me,” he said, avoiding Enjolras’s eyes. “But it’s what we do, isn’t it? Argue. Fight. Make everyone else uncomfortable.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Enjolras said.</i>
</p><p>Grantaire has finally found friends who he can be himself with, but that doesn't mean much when Enjolras is constantly berating him for his bad habits. He can't understand why Enjolras insists on putting his nose where it doesn't belong. They're not even friends, not really, and Grantaire's life would be much easier if he wasn't constantly thinking about Enjolras's opinion of him. The trouble is, he can't stop.</p><p>(Or, Grantaire and Enjolras are emotionally stunted idiots who can't express their feelings in a sane and healthy manner.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Friend in Need

**Author's Note:**

> Er, I'll just leave this here...
> 
> This is the first fic I've finished for this fandom and the first fic I've ever actually published online, so be gentle? Disclaimer: I know nothing about the geography of Paris, or France actually, so please excuse any inaccuracies. If it makes it easier, just assume that Les Amis inhabit an alternate Paris, where things are entirely different.

Grantaire was nibbling on the end of a paintbrush and absent-mindedly wondering if his final assignment would paint itself if he gave it some breathing space when the doorbell rang. He took his time answering it, expecting that either Feuilly or Bahorel had forgotten their keys, only to find Marius in the hallway with a bunch of wilting roses in his hands. Grantaire raised his eyebrows and slouched against the doorway, folding his arms.

“Well, Pontmercy,” he said with a grin. “This is a surprise. How did you know that roses were my favourite?”

Marius gave a wail of despair. “They’re not—it’s not—not that you’re not great, but I’m just not—”

Grantaire held up a hand before the babbling got too much to bear, knowing from experience that if he didn’t stop him now, Marius was likely to ramble on for at least a half hour. “Calm down, Marius, it was a joke. Although I would like to know what you’re doing on my doorstep on a Saturday night with roses, if you’d care to explain.”

He stepped aside to let Marius into the apartment and wondered if he had anything that he could offer him. They were out of coffee, Feuilly had emptied the jar last night while he was working on the same assignment Grantaire was supposed to be doing now. He could make tea—except Jehan had come over yesterday afternoon and drunk the last of it. He supposed that he could offer Marius some whiskey or rum, but plying him with alcohol didn’t seem like a particularly good idea right now. Grantaire took a moment to examine his friend, sitting on the couch and worrying the stems of the roses with his fingertips, and was both amused and concerned by what he saw.

Marius looked like hell. His jumper was about two sizes too small for him, his hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks, and the corduroys he was wearing had holes in the knees, and besides that, Grantaire was nearly sure he’d been wearing them yesterday. He almost looked as if Jehan had dressed him, although if that had been the case at least Grantaire would have felt comfortable mocking him. Anyone who allowed Jehan to pick an outfit for them deserved any taunting that came their way. As things stood, he found himself wondering if Marius had suffered a head injury in the few hours since they’d last seen each other.

He was about to ask about the roses again when Marius looked up at him, desperation flashing across his face. “I’m going to make a fool of myself,” he moaned. Grantaire suddenly had an idea of what this might be about.

“Is your date with Cosette tonight?”

Marius nodded pitifully, burying his head in his hands and crushing the roses in the process. Grantaire sighed and plucked the doomed flowers out of Marius’s hands, depositing them unceremoniously on the coffee table. He took a seat on the beat-up old armchair that Bahorel had salvaged from the junkyard over the Christmas break and waited patiently for Marius to explain. It took longer than he’d expected—apparently Marius was just as good at wallowing in self-pity as he was at babbling.

“I thought that I’d try to look smart,” Marius said eventually. “To impress her father, you know, he values education really highly and I thought it would make a good impression. So I picked out a jumper and my best trousers and I even borrowed Combeferre’s spare glasses—” At this, he produced a familiar pair of black plastic spectacles, although they looked worse for wear. One of the lenses was scratched and the arms appeared to be broken. Marius pocketed them, sighing miserably. “But everything just went wrong.”

“Alright, so you broke the glasses and borrowed a munchkin’s jumper,” Grantaire said in a reasonable tone, prompting another wail from Marius. He dropped the sarcasm. “Okay, okay, so evidently, you’ve hit some speed bumps.”

“The dry-cleaner shrunk my jumper,” Marius said. “And then I tripped on my way to get the roses and broke Combeferre’s glasses and ripped my trousers. And I’m supposed to be picking Cosette up in three hours and I—”

“Hang on,” Grantaire interrupted, narrowing his eyes. “ _Three_ hours? Bloody hell, Pontmercy, how long does it take you to get ready?”

Marius blinked owlishly at him. “Well,” he said, “I wanted everything to be perfect.”

Grantaire pressed the heel of his hand to his temple to ward off the headache that was inevitably approaching. It was a side effect of spending time alone with Marius. For all of his wonderful qualities, Marius could really be quite clueless at times, and Grantaire found that it was usually impossible to get through an encounter alone with him without resorting to aspirin or alcohol. He decided that the latter was the more appealing option and excused himself momentarily, returning with a can of beer.

“Alright, damage control,” he said after taking a long gulp. “We need to get you a new outfit, get rid of those roses—I’m sorry, Marius, but they just look sad—and I suppose you’ll just have to do without the glasses, because I have perfect vision.”

Marius beamed. “That’s alright,” he said, cheerful now that he knew Grantaire was going to help him. “They hurt my eyes, anyway. Combeferre really can’t see.”

“Yes, well, that’s the point of the glasses,” Grantaire muttered, sizing Marius up. He was taller than Feuilly and stockier than Grantaire, and most of his clothes were splattered with paint anyway, but maybe Bahorel had something that would fit Marius. He ordered Marius into the bathroom to fix his hair and wash his face and then went to Bahorel’s room to dig out some clothes, lamenting his abandoned art project as he searched. He hadn’t been making much progress, but given the choice between dressing Marius Pontmercy for a date and painting, he would definitely choose the latter.

He managed to scrounge up a pair of jeans that looked reasonably clean and a pinstriped shirt that Bahorel had worn as part of his Halloween costume the year before. He’d been a gangster, but Grantaire thought the shirt could be repurposed for a first date. At any rate, it was the only clean shirt in Bahorel’s room that didn’t have an offensive slogan emblazoned on the chest. Grantaire returned to the living room to find Marius sitting on the couch, already looking better than when he arrived.

“I borrowed some hair gel,” Marius said. Grantaire was torn between telling Marius that there was no hair gel in the bathroom and the desire to get Marius outfitted for his date and out of his apartment. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut and deposited the clothes on Marius’s lap.

“Courtesy of Bahorel,” he said dryly. Marius disappeared into the bathroom again to change, and when he returned, he actually looked somewhat decent. The clothes weren’t a perfect fit—Bahorel was much bulkier than Marius—but at least they didn’t have any visible holes or stains.

“Does it look okay?” Marius asked anxiously, fiddling with the cuffs of the shirt.

“You look radiant,” Grantaire replied.

“You’re sure?”

“If you want a detailed breakdown of your outfit, Marius, you’ve come to the wrong place,” Grantaire said with a roll of his eyes. “I’m sure Eponine or Jehan would be more than happy to help out with that.”

“They’re not in,” Marius said without missing a beat. A flush raced across his cheeks and Grantaire scoffed internally. It figured—Marius had probably tried everyone else before coming to him for help. He drained the last dregs of beer from the can and took it to the bin, gathering up Marius’s wilted roses as he went. Marius looked at him expectantly when he returned. “Now what?”

“Now what?” Grantaire repeated. “Dear God, Marius, have you never been on a date before?”

Marius’s flushed cheeks grew redder. “Well,” he mumbled, avoiding Grantaire’s eyes, “strictly speaking…”

Grantaire closed his eyes, scolding himself internally. This had to be some sort of karmic punishment for procrastination. He’d spent so long avoiding his assignment that when he finally decided to do it, the fates had sent him a distraction in the form of Marius Pontmercy, the virgin, the infant, the first-time dater. No wonder he was so nervous. And now, on top of his nerves, he had to deal with Grantaire being his relationship coach. _A fate that no-one should have to suffer,_ Grantaire thought dully.

“It’s really not as frightening as you think,” he said, leaning against the arm of the couch and folding his arms. “It’s just like hanging out with a friend, except if it goes well, there’s kissing involved.” He couldn’t help but smirk a little. “And maybe other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” Marius said, alarmed. “On our first date?”

“You’re far too easy to wind up, Pontmercy. Stop panicking. Just treat her like you’d treat any of your friends and you’ll be fine.” He paused. “Do you know where you’re taking her?”

It wasn’t an unreasonable question. Marius was notoriously indecisive. Grantaire had a sudden image of Marius and Cosette wandering around Paris for hours because he couldn’t decide on a restaurant and shuddered. One look at Marius’s face told him that he’d been right to ask.

“I thought we might decide together,” Marius said weakly. Grantaire shook his head.

“Take her to that Italian place we went to for Jehan’s birthday. And for the love of God, don’t order anything with garlic in it.”

“Right,” Marius said, although he still sounded unsure of himself. “Right, you’re right, of course. Thank you. I should probably get going. I don’t want to be late.” He thanked Grantaire again and left, leaving his ruined jumper and corduroys bundled up on the couch. Grantaire glanced at his watch as the door swung shut behind Marius.

It was still two hours until he was due to pick Cosette up.

 

 

 

It seemed that Grantaire’s project was doomed to remain unfinished. Almost as soon as he settled down at his canvas after Marius left, he received a text from Courfeyrac inviting him to the Corinth for drinks. If Grantaire had more willpower and a better work ethic, he might have refused, but he was fairly comfortable in his identity as a weak procrastinator, and besides, Saturday was two-for-one shot night at the Corinth. So his canvas and watercolours were abandoned for another night as he headed for the student pub that had become like a second home to him over the past few months.

He found the usual crowd there, or at least most of them. Marius was on his date, of course, and Musichetta and Feuilly were working, but most of his friends were tucked into one of the booths in the back of the pub, sipping brightly coloured cocktails and loudly debating the merits of the student discount. It was Combeferre who noticed him first, raising his glass in an approximation of a greeting. Grantaire slid into the booth beside Joly and leaned over to talk to Combeferre.

“Marius broke your glasses,” he said, speaking loudly to be heard over the music. Combeferre simply grinned and produced a pair of glasses identical to the broken pair Marius had left in Grantaire’s apartment.

“I gave him a decoy,” Combeferre said. “They were from a Halloween costume.”

Grantaire remembered Marius’s comment about Combeferre’s eyesight and chuckled, raising his glass to clink it against Combeferre’s. The toast didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the group; Courfeyrac’s eyes lit up instantly, attuned as always to any sign of merriment, and he leaned forward, nearly upsetting the table in the process.

“What are we celebrating?” he demanded.

“The incorruptible innocence of Marius Pontmercy,” Grantaire said. Courfeyrac, Jehan, Joly and Bossuet immediately raised their glasses.

“Hear hear,” Jehan said solemnly, and they all drank.

Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire saw Eponine chug her drink a little more forcefully than the others, and he remembered with a stab of guilt how she felt about Marius. Her crush was intense. Unfortunately, so was Marius’s obliviousness. He didn’t have the slightest inkling of how Eponine felt about him, and now he was besotted with Cosette. From the looks of things, Eponine was having a hard time dealing with that. Grantaire resolved not to mention Marius for the rest of the night and excused himself for a moment to go to the bar. He returned with a tray of neon-coloured shots, raising a cheer around the table.

The shots were consumed eagerly by most, and begrudgingly by Enjolras, who sat sandwiched between Eponine and Combeferre with a scowl on his face. Grantaire wasn’t sure if the scowl was due to his presence or if Enjolras had been brooding all night, but he would be willing to bet his life savings (all zero of them) on the former. His relationship with Enjolras treaded a fine line between friendship and hatred, and Grantaire was never quite sure what side of the line they stood on at a particular time. It was so hard to tell with Enjolras, who showed affection with scathing remarks and admonitions. Even when he was in Enjolras’s good books, Grantaire felt like he irritated him.

In any case, the shots fulfilled their purpose in deflecting the conversation from Marius. Eponine was looking much more cheerful now as she listened to Enjolras and Combeferre discuss their plans to implement a proper recycling program at the university. The rest of the group were involved in a much less serious, far more interesting discussion about Game of Thrones, championed by Bahorel and Joly. Bahorel’s arguments were solid, but their impact was lessened slightly by the fact that Jehan was braiding Bahorel’s hair as he spoke. Grantaire leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, half-listening to both conversations, ready to jump in if anyone started badmouthing Sansa Stark or making unreasonable assumptions about the effect that a university recycling program could have on the wider world.

“We’ll need to get that petition drawn up as soon as we can,” Enjolras was saying. “The sooner we can circulate it on campus, the sooner we can bring this to the board.”

Grantaire found himself marvelling at the determination in Enjolras’s voice. Even when it came to something as small as this, he was driven and resolute. Grantaire disagreed with Enjolras on most things, but he had to admit, his dedication to the cause was impressive, if infuriating.

At some point, someone went and got more shots, and as the night wore on, Grantaire felt his head growing pleasantly fuzzier. He found himself thinking again of the blank canvas waiting for him at home and thought that he might give it another go when the night wound down. He’d recently discovered that his work was far more palatable when he’d been drinking. True, he usually didn’t remember the process, but he’d ended up with some decent paintings. One of them hung in the living room in the apartment he shared with Feuilly and Bahorel, occupying pride of place over the television.

Somewhere around his fifth cocktail, Grantaire noticed Enjolras staring at him with a frown. “Something on your mind, Apollo?” Grantaire asked, wrapping a hand pointedly around the stem of his glass.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?” Enjolras said.

“On the contrary, I don’t think I’ve had nearly enough,” Grantaire said, raising the glass to his lips. There was something antagonistic in his voice, but he didn’t think he was being entirely unreasonable. Both Courfeyrac and Bossuet were on their fifth drink of the night as well, and if Grantaire was counting correctly, Bahorel was on his sixth. Grantaire was still fully in control of all of his mental faculties, he felt no urges to start a bar fight or piss his pants, he wasn’t slurring his speech. It was really rather ridiculous of Enjolras to assume that he could gauge whether or not Grantaire had had enough to drink based on his own shitty tolerance, evidenced by the fact that he was still nursing the daiquiri he’d been drinking when Grantaire arrived.

Enjolras apparently didn’t think Grantaire’s statement deserved a response, unless he intended his reply to be an eye roll. Grantaire frowned and opened his mouth to continue the discussion, but he was silenced by Eponine, who clambered over Joly and Courfeyrac with such ease that Grantaire thought for a moment he was hallucinating, and maybe Enjolras was right about the drinks. Eponine settled in against Grantaire’s side and leaned in to whisper, “Don’t push it.”

Grantaire muttered something unintelligible, downed the rest of his cocktail and then went to the bar to order another round of shots, mainly with the intention of spiting Enjolras. It worked—Grantaire could see the blond shaking his head, lips pressed in a thin line as Grantaire, Eponine and Bahorel downed the shots, the only ones brave enough to go another round.

Eventually, they could drink no more, and even Grantaire acknowledged that it was time to leave. He stumbled out of the Corinth with one arm wrapped around Eponine’s waist and the other around Courfeyrac’s. “To friendship!” he crowed to the dark street. “To avoiding deadlines! To two shots for the price of one!” He grinned at Enjolras suddenly, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “To changing the world, one recycling program at a time!”

Enjolras stared at him coldly. “You’re insufferable,” he said and then strode on ahead, wrapping his arms around his torso for warmth. Combeferre jogged after him and Grantaire felt an elbow in his side, which turned out to belong to Courfeyrac.

“Why do you have to rile him up like that?” Courfeyrac complained, but he wasn’t really annoyed. “He’ll just use this as an excuse not to come next time.”

Grantaire didn’t have an answer for him, or at least not one that he could articulate in his current state. Enjolras was beautiful and pleasant to look at, but he became even more entrancing when he was angry. He liked watching Enjolras get riled up, and an unfortunate side effect of that was that he usually had to be the one to do the riling up. If it made Enjolras mad at him, then so be it. He would calm down by tomorrow, or by Monday if he decided to really drag it out. Grantaire wasn’t worried. This, after all, was just part of their confusing, inexplicable routine.

The group gradually disintegrated as they walked the streets of Paris, splitting off to head home. Finally, it was just Grantaire and Bahorel, who resurrected the Game of Thrones debate as soon as Joly disappeared down the alley that led to his apartment with Bossuet. 

“Targaryens, R,” Bahorel said reverently as Grantaire made vague noises of agreement and struggled to unlock the door to their apartment. 

His phone buzzed as he tumbled into bed and he groaned, expecting it to be Bahorel, determined to continue the debate even if Grantaire had kicked him out of his bedroom. Surprisingly, it turned out to be Marius.

**Thx 4 the help R. D8 went gr8! :-)**

Grantaire resisted the urge to correct his spelling and rolled over, closing his eyes. His last thought before he fell asleep was that he was glad Marius’s date went well, because he wasn’t sure if there was another woman in all of Paris who would be willing to date a man who still used text speak in 2015.

 


	2. A Night So Lovely As This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire searches for inspiration, Jehan tries to help, and Enjolras disapproves of Grantaire's drinking habits.

Grantaire was woken the next morning by an incessant ringing on his doorbell. He raised his head groggily from the pillow, still half-asleep and caught up in a dream where he and Eponine were training seahorses to compete in the Olympics. Finally, the ringing stopped, and he had almost succeeded in falling back asleep when his bedroom door swung open and Bahorel stormed in with a face like thunder, and a very eager Marius trailing behind him.

“You have a visitor,” Bahorel growled, and then returned to his own bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Grantaire suspected that he was going to burrow under his duvet for the rest of the day and silently mourned the fact that he couldn’t do the same.

He sat up and yawned, dragging a hand through his bedraggled curls and gesturing for Marius to sit down. He did, perching on the end of Grantaire’s mattress like he thought he might catch something if he came too close. Grantaire quickly figured out that it was his current state of undress that was bothering Marius, and with a roll of his eyes, he plucked a t-shirt from the floor and wrestled it over his head.

“Good morning, Marius,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to thank you again for your help last night,” Marius said eagerly. He was a completely different person from the bumbling, awkward law student that Grantaire had come to know over the past few months. It was astonishing, really, how such a drastic change could occur overnight. Grantaire made a mental note to ask Cosette just what she’d done to bolster Marius’s confidence.

“I live to serve,” he said, fumbling around on his nightstand for a cigarette. He wasn’t really listening as Marius babbled on about what he and Cosette had done the night before, too distracted by the pounding headache that he could feel coming on. He shouldn’t have mixed his drinks quite so vigorously at the Corinth—handling alcohol was one of Grantaire’s few talents, but even he found it hard to cope with rum, tequila, vodka and whiskey in quick succession.

“We’re going out again next week,” Marius concluded finally, with a smile that looked like it could generate power for a small town for at least a month.

“That’s great,” Grantaire said, finally locating his cigarettes and lighting one up. Marius wrinkled his nose at it, but didn’t seem put off enough to leave.

“So I thought maybe you could help me out next week like you did last night,” he said. Grantaire’s eyebrows shot up incredulously. When, exactly, he wondered, had he signed up to be Marius Pontmercy’s personal relationship coach? He didn’t recall applying for the position.

“I think you can handle it from here on out, Marius,” he said cautiously, not wanting to refuse outright for fear of seeming rude. He had enough of a problem with Enjolras thinking he was insufferable without adding Marius to the list of friends who had issues with him.

Grantaire’s heart sank as Marius shook his head rapidly. “I can’t, R! I was a mess until I talked to you last night, I need you to coach me before the date.”

“I have assignments,” Grantaire said weakly, thinking of the blank canvas in the living room. “I really need to focus on my final project.”

But Marius was looking at him with eager brown eyes, reminding Grantaire of a puppy that he’d had as a child. That’s what Marius was—an over-excited, imploring puppy, eager to please, and completely, utterly helpless. How was Grantaire supposed to say no to him?

“Please, R?”

He relented, although his inner voice was yelling obnoxiously that he was an idiot for doing so. “Fine. Just one more time, Pontmercy. I’m not holding your hand through this entire relationship.”

Marius left soon after, so cheerful as he said goodbye that it made Grantaire’s teeth hurt.  _Puppy love,_  he thought to himself.  _Sickening_.

He considered going back to bed and sleeping off his headache for another hour or two, but even a chronic procrastinator can hit his limit, and the thoughts of his final assignment compelled him to get up. He idled around his bedroom for as long as he could, even going so far as to make the bed and pick up the clothes littering the floor, but eventually he could put it off no longer.

There it was, as soon as he opened his bedroom door. A flat expanse of blank white canvas, staring at him mockingly. Feuilly’s project was propped up on an easel by the window, looking messy and unrefined, but at least there was something there. Grantaire’s project was a non-entity. A nothing.

He sighed and started gathering up his materials, hoping for a burst of inspiration, but he was still staring forlornly at the canvas when Bahorel staggered out of his room an hour later.

“Any luck?” Bahorel yawned as he padded towards the kitchen. Grantaire gave a mournful sigh in response and Bahorel laughed. “See, this is why I didn’t major in art. Too much pressure on the creative mind. Art can’t be produced on demand—it has to come from the heart.”

“Yeah, it had nothing to do with the fact that you can’t draw for shit,” Grantaire said amicably, ducking the dish-towel that Bahorel sent flying his way.

He knew that Bahorel wasn’t serious, but he had a point. Knowing that he had to get this project done was stifling Grantaire. How was he supposed to create something if he didn’t have the inclination to do so? He briefly considered scribbling Bahorel’s quote onto the canvas and handing that in as his final assignment, but somehow, he couldn’t imagine his professor taking it well.

Bahorel’s words still in his mind, he picked up a pencil and started to sketch a vague outline of a human heart. It was a good approximation—Joly would be proud—but the thought of handing up a heart painted on a canvas made bile rise in Grantaire’s throat. How self-indulgent.

“This is going nowhere,” he announced suddenly, throwing down his pencil. “I need to get out. What’s everyone doing?”

“Studying, I’d imagine,” Bahorel replied. “What did you have in mind?”

“Anything,” Grantaire said. “Let’s take a walk. Get coffee. I just need to get out of this apartment.”

It didn’t take much to convince Bahorel, and soon the two of them were wandering the streets of Paris, looking for something to do. They spotted Jehan and Courfeyrac through the window of the Musain as they passed, but the chalkboard out front deterred them from going inside—amateur poetry readings were one of Bahorel’s least favourite things, and Grantaire enjoyed them only if he could make fun of the poets, which he couldn’t do in good conscience with Jehan around.

They stopped in a little cafe around the corner from the university to get some lunch and brainstorm ideas for the afternoon, but it seemed that Grantaire’s artist’s block extended to activities, as well. He was about to suggest that they just give up and go home when the door to the cafe swung open and Joly, Combeferre and Bossuet spilled in. Bahorel whistled and, ignoring the startled looks of the other patrons, started grabbing chairs from nearby tables. Grantaire found himself jostled up against the wall as Combeferre squeezed in beside him.

“What are you doing here?” Joly asked, smiling.

“Grantaire is having creative difficulties,” Bahorel replied, dipping a chip into a tub of ketchup.

Combeferre looked intrigued. “Your final project? Feuilly and I were talking about it yesterday, what’s the assignment again?”

“To use any medium to portray inspiration,” Grantaire said dully, paraphrasing from the email his professor had sent out when assigning the project. “It’s infuriatingly abstract. How exactly is one supposed to portray ‘inspiration’ on a canvas?” He picked at his chips. “It can’t be done.”

Bossuet patted his arm in what Grantaire assumed was supposed to be a comforting manner. “Finals are kicking my ass, too,” he said sympathetically. “I don’t remember learning half the stuff I’m supposed to be studying.” At that, Combeferre raised an eyebrow and lifted one of the books that Bossuet had set on the table.

“That’s because this is a third year book, Bossuet,” he said, amused. “You don’t remember it because you haven’t learned it yet.”

Bossuet snatched the book from Combeferre and examined it, stricken. “I’ve been studying from this for the last three weeks!”

“… At least you’ll be ahead of the curve for next year?” Joly said in a futile attempt at optimism, but Bossuet simply put his head in his hands and started groaning about his luck. Accustomed to Bossuet’s minor personal crises, Joly patted him on the back and asked if anybody wanted any more food.

They ended up staying in the cafe for at least two hours, eating chips and sharing their own horror stories about exam prep in an attempt to make Bossuet feel better about his mistake. After they finished their food, Bahorel suggested drinks at the Corinth, and before Grantaire knew it, it was midnight and he was staggering into the apartment with Bahorel, whiskey on his breath and a cheap beaded necklace tangled in his hair. He dimly registered the sleeping form of Feuilly, curled up on the window-seat beside his project, which had made considerable progress—and beside it was Grantaire’s canvas, still blank, still mocking.

He stumbled into his bedroom. It could wait another day.

 

 

 

Grantaire spent the next three days in a caffeine filled stupor, alternating between staring at his canvas and swearing at it in frustration. He tried working at the same time as Feuilly at first, but that just made him more frustrated, since Feuilly was actually succeeding in creating something.

“It’ll come,” Feuilly told him, and although he was only trying to be supportive, Grantaire seriously considered hitting him over the head with his palette scraper.

The harder he tried, the worse he felt, and he grew more and more irritable with each day that passed. The atmosphere in the flat grew tense. Feuilly and Bahorel crept around Grantaire like he was a ticking time bomb, and he couldn’t even blame them—during a particularly trying time when Grantaire had thought he had his assignment figured out, Bahorel had asked if he wanted any coffee, and Grantaire had responded by shrieking like a banshee and upending his paint water all over the coffee table. It inspired a string of jokes about artistic temperament, but his roommates didn’t ask him questions when he was standing in front of the easel after that.

Finally, he had to accept that no matter what Feuilly said, inspiration wasn’t coming. There was still a few weeks until the deadline, but he couldn’t see anything changing anytime soon. He was doomed to fail the assignment, flunk his class and have to repeat it next term. The thought made him want to tear his hair out, but he was sure if he spent one more minute staring at that blank canvas, he was going to lose his mind.

He announced his decision to abandon the project as he lazed on the grass in the university gardens with the others. The general idea of traipsing to the university when none of them had any lectures was to have a picnic, but only Jehan had thought to bring any food, so instead they were lounging about in various states of relaxation, some with textbooks open on their knees, others relieved for a break from the monotony of studying. Grantaire’s announcement prompted some confusion from the group, particularly Enjolras, who fixed Grantaire with one of his familiar frowns.

“You’ll flunk the class if you don’t turn in your final assignment,” he said flatly, and Grantaire chuckled.

“Why thank you, Apollo,” he said. “I’m well aware of that. I’ll just take it again next term.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Enjolras shot back. “You’ve been getting good grades in the class otherwise, why throw that away over a silly little project? Surely you can just throw something together. It’s not like it’s a very specific prompt, for goodness’s sake, something abstract would do just fine.”

“I’m not willing to compromise my artistic integrity for the sake of a grade,” Grantaire said primly, although the real reason was that he  _couldn’t_  do what Enjolras said. He’d tried—unlike most of his friends, Grantaire was far from a perfectionist. The idea of handing in a sub-par project didn’t make him break out in a cold sweat like Combeferre or Enjolras himself might have. But even his attempts at an abstract representation of inspiration wound up looking like a five year old’s finger painting, and there was a difference between sub-par and utterly unpalatable. He couldn’t understand it, but something about the project was blocking Grantaire’s abilities.

“Artistic integrity,” Enjolras scoffed. “Like you have any artistic integrity! Last month you got drunk, dipped your hands in red paint and made handprints all over a sheet of construction paper and called it modern art. I seem to remember you turning that in as an assignment, as well.”

“Let it go, Apollo,” Grantaire said, closing his eyes. “We artists inhabit a higher plane. You simply can’t understand our motivations.”

He could hear Enjolras muttering under his breath about lazy, contrary drunkards, but he was too comfortable to care. He thought that the matter was settled and was about to let himself drift off for a nap when Jehan nudged him with the tip of his foot.

“Could we help, Grantaire?” he asked, and there was something so inherently kind about his voice that Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to dismiss him the way he had done with Enjolras. That was the thing about Jehan—you could never do something he didn’t want you to, because you just felt too bad afterwards.

Still, he was pretty sure that the university had a strict policy on turning in another student’s work as your own, so he didn’t see how Jehan thought they could help.

“What, like you guys paint it and I just sign my name? I don’t know how I feel about plagiarism, Jehan.”

Jehan smiled, shaking his head. “What if we helped you find your inspiration?”

Grantaire wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. It was typical Jehan, soft and gentle and always willing to help, but Grantaire was sure that he could have phrased it in a way that didn’t come off so… cheesy. To his surprise, however, the others were nodding and offering their own words of encouragement. Grantaire was touched.

“My very own spiritual journey to inspiration,” he quipped, although he had to admit that the idea had some merit. Perhaps the problem with the project wasn’t finding a way to paint his own inspiration, but trying to paint his own inspiration at all. Even if that wasn’t true, it could hardly hurt to try. “Alright. Yeah, that sounds like it could be helpful. Thanks, Jehan.”

 

 

 

Since it had been Jehan’s idea to help Grantaire find his inspiration, it was he who chose the first activity, and just as Grantaire had suspected, it turned out to be a poetry reading. Not original amateur poetry, thankfully, but a reading of various famous poets, which Grantaire could handle. Jehan insisted that they arrive early to get a good seat,but Grantaire didn’t mind, since the rest of their friends had decided to tag along for the ride. It was just like a regular outing, which he thought might be a good thing. It made it seem more natural.

He found himself sandwiched between Musichetta and Jehan right at the front of the table, where Jehan said he would have the best view of the ‘magic’.

“So, are you ready for this?” Musichetta asked conspiratorially, leaning in close and bumping her shoulder against his. “Ready to be  _inspired_?”

“Ready to be bored,” Grantaire corrected her, feeling a twinge of guilt as Jehan shot him a look.

“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,” Musichetta said, swatting at him. “I’ve come to this with Jehan before, it’s actually quite interesting. And don’t try and tell me you don’t like poetry, because I’ve seen your bookcase, remember.”

It was true, Grantaire had a rather impressive collection of poetry in his bedroom, but readings were a different matter entirely. It took a special kind of person to read a poem and draw an audience in, Grantaire thought. He believed that poetry was an intensely personal thing, not something that one casually shared with an audience of strangers, and as a result he always felt somewhat alienated listening to someone read a poem aloud.

Still, Jehan was trying to help, and the least Grantaire could do was go into this with an open mind. It helped, of course, that he had a little silver hip flask of whiskey in his jacket pocket, which he added discreetly to his coffee when no-one was looking.

Or at least when he thought no-one was looking—as he slipped the flask back into his pocket, he caught Enjolras staring at him disapprovingly, but there was no time for a reprimand. The first reader was climbing onstage, a petite blonde girl whose hands trembled as she took the mic.

She read a selection of poems by Sylvia Plath, a choice that Grantaire saw coming a mile away, and then joined her friends at a table near the back. She was followed by a slightly overweight hipster who read Yeats in an unabashedly flamboyant voice, and to Grantaire’s surprise, when he left the stage, Jehan climbed on.

Grantaire knew that Jehan read poetry, both at events like this and at the amateur readings that Grantaire despised so much, but he hadn’t expected that he would be participating tonight. Belatedly, he clapped along with the rest of his friends as Jehan introduced himself and dedicated his reading to Grantaire.

It was a poem that Grantaire had never heard before, but the words struck him. He listened rapturously to Jehan’s clear, steady voice as he reached the culmination of the poem:

_“My friend, you would not tell with such high zest_

_to children ardent for some desperate glory,_

_the old lie: dulce et decorum est_

_pro patria mori.”_

Jehan took a bow and returned to the table, beaming. Grantaire hugged him as he sat down and leaned across to whisper delightedly, “Did you like it? I thought you would. It reminded me of you.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or disturbed that Jehan was reminded of him when reading a poem about the atrocities of war, but he chose to take it as a compliment. After all, Jehan took poetry more seriously than anything, and if he’d chosen to read that one aloud, it clearly meant something to him. Grantaire would never admit it, but Jehan’s reading gave him a warm feeling that lasted until the interval, when Enjolras reached over and prodded him sharply.

“Do you really need that?” he asked, inclining his head ever so slightly towards Grantaire’s coffee cup. Grantaire blinked back at him innocently.

“Well, I don’t know about  _needing_  it, Apollo, but my mother taught me that it’s rude to sit in a place of business for an extended period of time without ordering anything.”

Enjolras glared. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Grantaire was saved the trouble of continuing the argument by Bossuet, who had gone to order more drinks and somehow managed to spill them all as soon as he returned to the table. Enjolras’s disapproving stare faded into the background as everyone tried to mop up the rapidly spreading puddle of dark liquid on the table and Jehan fretted about it staining his scarf.

The rest of the interval was taken up by Bossuet’s profuse apologies and Courfeyrac’s gleeful insistence that he’d ruined the night with his clumsiness and they couldn’t possibly go on. Somewhere between Joly reprimanding Courfeyrac and Eponine demanding to know why no-one had gone to replace Bossuet’s spilled coffees, Grantaire realised that he was actually enjoying himself. Jehan’s poetry reading had turned out to be much more entertaining than he’d expected. He took a sip of his whiskey infused cappuccino, grinning.

The second half of the reading, however, was less than stimulating. Grantaire discreetly added more whiskey to his cup as a freckle-faced brunette ascended the stage to recite more Plath. By the time the final speaker was stepping up to the mic, his flask was empty and his head was feeling pleasantly fuzzy as he leaned against Musichetta’s shoulder.

Jehan beamed at him as the lights came back up, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Well?” he said expectantly, looking at Grantaire for a reaction. “Did you like it? Did it inspire you?”

Grantaire laughed. “I think we’ll have to wait and see, Jehan,” he said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “But yes, I liked it. Thank you.”

They stayed in the cafe a little while longer, finishing their drinks and discussing the evening, and by the time they stumbled out onto the street, it was dark out. Jehan’s arm was hooked through Grantaire’s as he babbled on excitedly about who his favourites of the night had been, but Grantaire was hardly paying attention. His eyes were fixed instead on Enjolras’s silhouette up ahead as he walked beside Combeferre, back rigid and unyielding. He’d refrained from speaking to Grantaire when the performance had ended, which Grantaire strongly suspected had something to do with the whiskey. He wished that it didn’t bother him so much that Enjolras was ignoring him, but he was weak. Arguing with Enjolras was fun—being ignored by him, he’d quickly discovered, was a special kind of torture. It was taking all of his willpower not to bound over to Enjolras and Combeferre and sling an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders, an act that would surely annoy him even further. The only thing stopping Grantaire from doing it was Jehan’s arm linked securely through his and the excited murmur of his voice as they walked through the city.

As they turned onto the street where Joly and Bossuet lived, Grantaire felt suddenly immensely thankful for Jean Prouvaire. He told him that as they waved goodbye to Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, and Jehan laughed in response.

“Poetry is good for you,” Jehan said. “You’re in such a good mood.”

Enjolras scoffed up ahead, and his voice carried as he said, “I think you’ll find that that’s the whiskey and not the soothing words of Dickinson and Eliot.”

“Can’t it be both, Apollo?” Grantaire enquired. “A man can enjoy a drink along with some well-written verse, don’t you agree? It’s all in the name of a good time, after all.”

“I think a man who sneaks alcohol into a poetry reading has more serious things to worry about than having a good time,” Enjolras said snappishly, and Grantaire heard Eponine tut behind him.

“Let’s not argue, boys,” she said lightly.

“Yes, let’s not spoil the night,” Jehan agreed, sounding anxious.

“I wouldn’t dream of spoiling a night so lovely as this,” Grantaire said after a moment, grinning. Enjolras didn’t reply, but the air was charged with tension, and they didn’t recover the carefree atmosphere of before. It didn’t help when Eponine, Jehan and Courfeyrac left for their respective apartments. Ordinarily Grantaire enjoyed riling Enjolras up, liked the way it made his skin flush and his eyes grow dark, but now it was almost a relief when they parted ways, Enjolras heading for home with Combeferre and Grantaire walking on with Feuilly and Bahorel. His cheerful demeanour from before had drooped considerably—and when Feuilly let them into the apartment and revealed Grantaire’s still blank canvas, what was still left of it vanished completely.

He brushed past it, heading straight for his bedroom. Everything would look better in the morning, he decided.


	3. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cosette meets Les Amis and Grantaire makes a breakthrough on his assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thank you to anybody who's shown interest in this story so far - I was expecting it to get buried under all the talent on this site, so I'm pleasantly surprised at the fact that people are actually enjoying my ramblings!

Things looked _so_ much worse in the morning.

Grantaire woke with a splitting headache—not from the whiskey he’d consumed at Jehan’s reading, or even from the bottle and a half of wine that he’d polished off while lying in bed and feeling sorry for himself, but from the incessant buzzing of his phone during the night. It turned out that Marius’s second date with Cosette was tonight, and pressing deadlines or no, he still expected Grantaire to help him.

Grantaire counted fifteen texts between midnight and eight in the morning. The kid was pathological.

He’d ignored all of them, of course, and replied only when he deemed it to be an appropriate hour for text messaging. His irritation at the excess of messages made him seriously consider leaving Marius to fend for himself, but the thought of that over-eager, puppy-like face stopped him from being so cruel. Instead, he told Marius to meet him at the Musain at noon, and after a brief moment’s consideration, fired off a text to Courfeyrac asking him to join them. Marius might be embarrassed at Grantaire’s inviting someone else, but Courfeyrac was a relationship wizard and much more qualified to deal with the Cosette problem than Grantaire. And surely, Grantaire reflected as he searched his bedroom for a clean shirt, it couldn’t hurt to get another opinion on Marius’s situation. 

Besides that, in his current state of mind, Grantaire didn’t entirely trust himself not to snap at Marius rather than help him.

His phone buzzed as he wrestled his way into a reasonably clean smelling t-shirt.

“You’re awake before noon,” the voice at the other end greeted him. “Is there a crisis I don’t know about?”

Grantaire sighed and balanced the phone on his shoulder as he tugged on a pair of jeans. “Good morning to you, too, Courf.”

“Good morning,” Courfeyrac said belatedly. “Why are we meeting at the cafe? Are you dying?”

“I’d rather be,” Grantaire muttered. “Marius is seeing Cosette tonight. Somehow he’s gotten it into his head that I’m his personal relationship guru, and he wants to meet up to discuss his plans.”

There was a brief pause and then Courfeyrac’s laughter poured out of the phone, making Grantaire wince. The laughing lasted for at least a minute before Courfeyrac finally spoke again, out of breath. “He wants relationship advice from you? That’s priceless!”

“I know things,” Grantaire said indignantly, although he wasn’t sure why he was defending his right to be Marius’s relationship guide when he didn’t even want the job in the first place.

“You know how to manoeuvre casual relationships and one-night stands,” Courfeyrac said, amused. “You don’t know anything about ‘twue wuv’. Unless you count your verbal sparring matches with Enjolras, but—”

“Courfeyrac,” Grantaire warned.

“Struck a nerve, have I?” When Grantaire didn’t reply, he chuckled. “You artists and your stunted emotional development. I’ll see you at the Musain.”

Grantaire gave himself an hour before he had to leave for the cafe, and spent most of it positioned in front of his easel with a furrowed brow. It wasn’t the futile endeavour that it had been for the past few days—by the time he was shrugging on his coat, he’d managed to sketch some abstract lines. It wasn’t fine art, but it was progress, and he sent a silent thank you to Jehan for his mission of inspiration. If the rest of his friends came through, maybe he would actually manage to finish the assignment.

Courfeyrac was already at the Musain when Grantaire arrived, sitting at a table by the window and sipping a latte. He pushed an extra cup over to Grantaire’s side of the table with a smile. “Black,” Courfeyrac said. “Just like your soul.”

Grantaire took a sip and found that it was actually laced with cream and caramel syrup, which was just the way he liked it (second to a shot of whiskey or cream liquor, of course). He raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac. “That joke is old.” He realised suddenly that the third chair at their table was empty and frowned. “Marius didn’t come with you?”

“He wasn’t at home,” Courfeyrac shrugged. “I did plan on waiting for him, but I worried you’d think we were standing you up.”

“Can’t say I’d mind,” Grantaire said, tracing the rim of his cup. “I’ve got more important things to worry about than helping Marius get laid.” 

Courfeyrac smiled sympathetically. “Still no luck on the assignment, then?”

“Not much.”

He was saved the trouble of elaborating by the arrival of Marius, who burst into the Musain with an apologetic grin that faltered when he spotted Courfeyrac. He went to the counter to order, and by the time he approached the table, the grin was back, although it looked decidedly put on now.

“Hello, Courfeyrac,” Marius said. His tone was reproachful as he turned to Grantaire. “R.”

“Oh, quit it with the wounded puppy act,” Grantaire scolded. “You want help with Cosette, don’t you?” Marius nodded, looking thoroughly admonished. “Well, Courfeyrac is better at relationships than me.”

Courfeyrac proved his value immediately—within ten minutes, he’d told Marius about several places that were appropriate for a second date, advised him on an outfit and even provided him with several handy discussion topics in case the conversation became stilted. Marius listened to all of it with rapt attention, and by the time Courfeyrac moved on to tips for their next date, Grantaire felt certain that he was relieved of his duties as relationship advisor. He sipped at his coffee and allowed his thoughts to wander while Courfeyrac waxed rhapsodic about an Asian fusion restaurant near the Corinth.

He was due to meet with Joly later for his leg of the inspirational spirit journey, but he wasn’t sure if he was up for it. Jehan’s poetry reading had been daunting because he knew what to expect—Joly’s choice of outings was a mystery, and thus infinitely more terrifying. Grantaire had visions of being dragged to one of Joly’s lectures, to a seminar on varicose veins, or whatever it was that medical students got excited about.

“… And _that_ ,” Courfeyrac finished, “is why you should never take a girl you’re serious about on a coffee date. It says that you’re not ready for commitment.”

Marius nodded, his fingers twitching like he wanted to write the advice down. “Right,” he murmured. “Right, coffee dates are a bad idea. She’ll think I’m uninterested in a relationship. Unreliable. Flaky.”

“Like a croissant,” Courfeyrac agreed cheerily. He glanced at Grantaire. “You’re quiet, R. Planning a hot date of your own?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Has our fearless leader finally come around?”

“No hot dates for me,” Grantaire replied. He chose to ignore the comment about Enjolras. It was better not to encourage Courfeyrac by reacting. “It’s Joly’s turn to try and inspire me.”

“Dirty,” Courfeyrac said. “Can I come?”

“It’s an open invitation. Marius, you’re welcome to come after your date. Bring Cosette too. Unless you’d prefer to be alone.”

This prompted a gleeful shout from Courfeyrac, followed by some very detailed sex tips. Grantaire, grinning at Marius’s mortification, filed some of those away for future use.

 

 

 

It apparently turned out that Marius did not want to be alone with Cosette, because the two of them arrived at Joly and Bossuet’s apartment a little after eleven. They were holding hands, both of them pink-cheeked. A blind fool could easily tell how much they liked each other, and Grantaire felt a flash of pity for Marius at his decision to introduce her to the rest of the group so soon. He could see Bahorel and Courfeyrac gearing up to tease the two of them into oblivion.

It was the first time they’d all officially met Cosette, but they’d heard so much about her that it didn’t feel like it. She was just as Marius had described, blonde and pretty with a sweet smile and the bluest eyes Grantaire had ever seen. She shook everyone’s hand, even scowling Enjolras and hulking Bahorel, and it was when she complimented Jehan’s braid that Grantaire decided he liked her.

“Marius tells me you’re an artist,” she said when she reached Grantaire, flashing him that smile and grasping his hand firmly. “I’ve always wanted to be able to draw, but I’m hopeless.”

“So is he,” Bossuet quipped, ducking as Grantaire tossed a cushion in his direction.

“Sarcasm aside, he’s not wrong,” Grantaire told Cosette. “I’m thinking of dropping out and becoming a medical student. Infinitely easier, wouldn’t you say, Joly?”

Joly merely grinned at him, his attention entirely taken up by the television screen. This was Joly’s contribution to the inspire-Grantaire mission: an evening watching his favourite television shows.

(“In his defence,” Bossuet had said when Grantaire expressed incredulity at the plan, “he was up all night studying for a physiology exam and forgot it was his turn.”)

“I’d like to see some of your work sometime,” Cosette said. Her gaze flickered to Feuilly and her smile grew wider. “Yours too, Feuilly. Marius said that you’re a fan of impressionism?”

They fell into a discussion about the pros and cons of Monet’s work, and after that, Cosette moved seamlessly into discussing the Romantics with Jehan. Grantaire was impressed: she had slipped effortlessly into their circle, charming them all and ensuring that none of them could object to her. He was suddenly grateful that Eponine had had to work tonight. She was having a hard enough time dealing with Marius having feelings for someone else. He imagined it would be even worse to see Cosette and Courfeyrac bonding over their shared love of theatre.

She even managed to win over Enjolras, sympathising with his latest cause (the budget cuts to the art department, interestingly enough) and offering suggestions on how they could combat it. Grantaire knew Enjolras well enough to discern that he was impressed by Cosette’s earnestness and apparent willingness to help. He couldn’t help but feel a flash of jealousy as Cosette and Enjolras talked about plans for a possible walk-out or demonstration at the university, golden heads bent together as they traded ideas. Talking to a like-minded activist made Enjolras light up in a way that he never would around Grantaire.

“I’m a member of the literary society and the choir,” Cosette was saying as Enjolras nodded along intently. “If you’d like, I can keep them informed on any plans you make. I”m sure they’ll want to be involved, cuts to the art department will affect them, too, after all.”

“That would be great,” Enjolras said. “Combeferre and I were planning to make some flyers this weekend, so maybe I could give some to you to distribute at your next meeting?” Behind them, Grantaire made a tutting sound, and Cosette turned to look at him. Enjolras simply gritted his teeth. “Ignore him, Cosette. Grantaire is allergic to justice.”

“On the contrary,” Grantaire remarked, a thrill running down his spine at the acknowledgement, even if it was a negative one. “I think you’ll find that Enjolras is allergic to being realistic.”

“He’s a pessimist,” Enjolras said. He raised his voice, although no-one was trying to speak over him, so Grantaire could only assume it was in hopes of making his point more clearly. “He shoots down all of our efforts to actually make the world a better place, so there’s no point in listening to him. He’ll just try to tear down your beliefs.”

“You wound me, Apollo,” Grantaire said, clutching at his heart. “I may never recover.”

His banter was light-hearted and easy, but the room had fallen silent with that familiar tension that always preceded an argument between Grantaire and Enjolras. There was something cold in Enjolras’s voice when he replied, “I’m sure you’ll cope somehow.”

Cosette was starting to look uncomfortable.

“I don’t think you realise how cutting your words are,” Grantaire told Enjolras. “I need something to numb the pain. Joly, Bossuet, where do you keep the vodka? Enjolras has destroyed my fragile ego.”

“Finding solace at the bottom of a bottle,” Enjolras said. “How predictable of you.”

Grantaire faltered. Enjolras clashing with him over the issue of drinking wasn’t a new occurrence, or even a rare one, but something about his tone stung this time. There was an edge to it that suggested something more serious than teasing. “What can I say,” he heard himself say, voice far too bright, “I”m a creature of habit.”

“Bad habits.”

“Don’t try to change me, baby.”

“Does everything have to be a joke with you?” Enjolras exploded, his gaze unflinching. “It’s no wonder you can’t paint anymore. Your refusal to take things seriously is infuriating, and honestly, your cynicism is holding all of us back. I don’t understand why you continue to give your input when you _clearly_ don’t care about what we’re doing. You’re nothing but a bunch of wasted potential, you don’t have any purpose—”

He fell silent suddenly, expression unreadable. Grantaire felt sick to his stomach. They argued all the time.

This was different.

He got to his feet and gathered his things, very aware of the anxious gazes of his friends and that still inexplicable expression on Enjolras’s face.

“Thanks for the lovely evening, Joly,” he said, affecting a cheerful tone even as his dinner threatened to make a reappearance. “I think I’d better be off.” He smiled at Cosette, who looked absolutely stricken by the nasty turn of events. “So nice to finally meet you, Cosette. Drop by the apartment sometime and I’ll show you my paintings.” His gaze flickered to Enjolras and he couldn’t help adding, “Only if you have time, of course. I wouldn’t want to hold you back.”

It was raining when he got outside and he realised belatedly that he’d left his jacket in the apartment, but he wasn’t going back to get it. He tugged his beanie down, shoved his hands in his pockets and half-jogged the distance to his apartment, thinking that it would be just his luck to catch a cold just a couple of weeks before exams. Joly would be scandalised at the thought of walking in such heavy rain—Grantaire wondered if they’d realised he’d left his jacket behind yet.

His phone buzzed incessantly but he ignored it until he was safely in his apartment. He had several messages, which he read with a small frown.

_**Joly, 11:49p.m.** _

_He didn’t mean it. Please come back._

_**Courfeyrac, 11.50p.m.** _

_E’s an idiot. You know what he’s like. Don’t take it personally._

_**Joly, 11.52p.m.** _

_You’ve left your coat, you’ll catch your death of cold. COME BACK :-(_

_**Jehan, 11.53p.m.** _

_You have every right to be angry but Enjolras didn’t mean what he said. He’s really angry with himself about what happened._

_**Jehan, 11.54p.m.** _

_And you’re not holding us back. We love you._

Grantaire deleted all of them and made for the kitchen, where he’d stashed a bottle of Russian vodka behind the bread bin. Eponine had given it to him for Christmas and he’d been saving it for a special occasion, but now seemed as good a time as any to break the silver blue seal. He leaned against the countertop and tipped his head back as he drank, wincing a little at the sharp sting against his throat. They didn’t have any mixers in the apartment, but that didn’t matter. He could drink it straight. The bottle was half empty before long, and he wandered back into the living room with a stagger in his step.

He’d always suspected that Enjolras saw him as a waste of space, but to have it confirmed was more painful than he’d thought it would be. If even Enjolras couldn’t believe in him, Enjolras who believed in everything and wanted to fix the world, then maybe he really was worthless. It was a depressing thought.

He swallowed another mouthful of vodka.

His eyes alighted on the mostly blank canvas by the window and a frown tugged at his lips. Enjolras’s words echoed in his mind.

_It’s no wonder you can’t paint anymore… you don’t have any purpose…_

Maybe Grantaire wasn’t a social rebel like Enjolras, but he had always hated being told what he could and couldn’t do. Enjolras said that he couldn’t paint—well, maybe Grantaire couldn’t prove him wrong, but he could damn well try.

The bottle slipped from his hands and rolled across the carpet, clear liquid gushing from it. He didn’t stop to pick it up, just grabbed his painting supplies from where he’d left them on the window-seat and started squirting paint onto a palette. His head was fuzzy and his vision blurred, but he was painting with more ease than he had in weeks, slashing colour across the canvas without second guessing himself or wondering if things were going to turn out okay. By the time he heard Feuilly’s key turning in the front door, the canvas was completely covered in paint, not an inch of blank whiteness left.

Feuilly appeared suddenly at his elbow. “So you got inspired, then.”

“Something like that,” Grantaire said, squinting at the painting. It was a mess of red and gold and black, that seemed familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time. He frowned and looked around for the forgotten bottle of vodka, spotting it by the coffee table. There was just enough left for one more swig. He winced as it went down and Feuilly laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, R, are you feeling okay? What Enjolras said—”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire bit out, side-stepping his roommate. He could see Bahorel lurking in the doorway, watching the two of them, and a wave of annoyance washed over him. “I’m not a child. I don’t need you to babysit me or look after me because my widdle feelings got hurt. I’m _fine_.”

Feuilly studied him. “If you say so,” he said quietly, and then retreated to his room. Bahorel approached Grantaire next, his heavy brows drawn together in something that looked suspiciously like concern.

“I’m here if you want to talk,” he said. Grantaire had to hold back a laugh at that one—big, intimidating Bahorel, who liked to punch first and ask questions later, telling him that he was there if Grantaire needed a heart-to-heart.

“I’m fine,” he said again. Bahorel didn’t push it. Grantaire was left alone again with his assignment, and he painted until morning light started filtering through the windows. He was still painting when Feuilly emerged hours later to go to work.

“Looking good,” Feuilly commented as he passed by on his way out. He made no mention of the night before, which Grantaire was grateful for. His lack of sleep and the considerable amount of vodka he’d consumed had given him a pounding headache, and he wasn’t sure he would have been able to restrain himself from snapping.

He put down the palette at last as the door clicked shut behind Feuilly and slept for an hour or two on the couch. When he woke up, he could hear Bahorel humming to himself in the kitchen as the scent of bacon wafted through the apartment. He got to his feet and gave the drying canvas a quick once-over, half afraid that it would look awful in the light of day. It wasn’t like he’d been making intelligent artistic decisions the night before—his main aim had been to prove to Enjolras that he could paint something, even if it wasn’t very good.

To his relief, it still looked acceptable. With some tweaks, it was possible that he might actually scrape a passing grade.

 


	4. Summer's Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Enjolras apologises and exams finally begin.

The scene between Enjolras and Grantaire at Joly’s movie night put an effective end to Jehan’s plan to inspire Grantaire, but it turned out that it didn’t matter. His artist’s block had vanished. He worked on the painting for days, ignoring his phone, emerging from his paint fume fuelled stupor only long enough to eat. He was vaguely aware of Feuilly and Bahorel going about their days around him, but everything was hazy except for his painting. It was as if he and his project existed in a bubble—all he thought about was finishing it. It felt good to finally be able to get it done, but even better was the distraction that it provided.

Although he would never admit it, he was still smarting from Enjolras’s comments.

Grantaire’s belief in his own self-worth had always been shaky. It was something that all of his friends knew, but it wasn’t something they discussed. When Grantaire made self-deprecating jokes or acted like he didn’t think he was worthy of something, they glossed over it. They didn’t try to talk to him about it, and they had the common decency not to use it as an attack in an argument.

Enjolras had crossed a line that nobody else had before, and Grantaire wasn’t entirely confident if their friendship would be able to move past it.

So to avoid thinking about it, he poured all of his energy into his assignment, and to his amazement, he actually ended up finishing it on time. Exactly one day before the deadline, Grantaire’s formerly blank canvas stood proudly in the living room, a bright burst of reds and golds framed in sharp slashes of black. It was definitely an abstract piece, but he thought that it did the assignment justice. He felt inspired when he looked at it, and when he unveiled the finished product to Feuilly, he earned a low whistle of approval.

“It’s intense,” Feuilly said, leaning close and squinting his eyes at a stroke of gold. “It reminds me of something…”

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s not based off of anything,” he said. “Just some random brushstrokes, but probably enough to get a passing grade.”

Lies. He knew exactly what the painting was inspired by—a certain golden-haired politics student, who had been at the back of Grantaire’s mind the entire time that he was working on it. Still, he would never admit it.

“Well, congratulations,” Feuilly said, clapping him on the back. “You know, for a while there I was actually worried that you weren’t going to finish. But this is impressive, R. I like it.” He grinned. “I think it calls for a celebration. A party tomorrow night, after you hand in the project.”

Grantaire thought about it. He was never one to turn down an excuse for a party—and with exams actually taking place over the next two weeks, it was probably the last time they would all see each other before summer began. He felt a slight twinge of unease at the thought of being in the same room as Enjolras again, but he couldn’t avoid him forever. Enjolras wasn’t going to abandon his carefully groomed group of social justice warriors, and Grantaire had no intention of finding a new group to hang out with this late in the school year. It just wasn’t socially advisable.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

Feuilly sent out the Facebook invites, making sure to add personalised threats for those of their friends that would be likely to refuse on grounds of studying—namely, Joly, Combeferre and Enjolras. Bahorel volunteered to get the booze, Feuilly snacks, and between them, they decided that Grantaire should decorate the apartment. 

It was something to look forward to, and despite his mixed feelings about seeing Enjolras, Grantaire was grateful to have something to look forward to after submitting his assignment. He hated the uncertainty that always came after handing a project in—no matter how comfortable he felt about a piece of work, he always doubted it the moment it had passed out of his own hands and into the hands of his professors.

He submitted it early the next morning (he was awake at eight; Courfeyrac would have been scandalised) and then returned to the apartment to “decorate”. For Grantaire, decorating for a party had little to do with streamers and confetti. He preferred to sketch tiny, personalised cartoons and pin them up all over the apartment for people to look at. It had become somewhat of a tradition among his friends, but Jehan in particular loved them. He’d stolen a stash from the last party Grantaire had thrown, which now resided on a cork board in the apartment he shared with Courfeyrac and Marius.

The theme was, of course, final exams. He drew his friends studying, taking exams, performing various acts of procrastination, and finally, celebrating the beginning of summer. His favourite was a sketch of the whole group doing yoga poses while a tiny cartoon Enjolras yelled at them to focus and reach their true potential. It occurred to him as he pinned it to the fridge that it might come off harsh in light of their argument, but he wasn’t worried enough to take it down.

Soon after Grantaire had finished pinning the drawings to the walls, Bahorel arrived with several cases of beer and bottles of spirits. He looked at the drawing closest to the door, showing a distressed Bossuet surrounded by a pile of broken pencils. Bahorel snorted.

“Too accurate, dude,” he said. “He’s going to think you jinxed him.”

“Even Bossuet can’t be that unlucky,” Grantaire retorted, relieving Bahorel of the beer cases and stacking them by the door. “So, who’s coming tonight?”

“Everyone, I think,” Bahorel said, reaching into one of the cases and cracking open a beer. “Chetta was supposed to be working, but she switched shifts. Even Enjolras said he’d put in an appearance.” He gave Grantaire a sidelong glance at that, clearly trying to gauge his reaction at Enjolras’s name. Well, Grantaire wasn’t going to react. He was a mature and confident college student, he didn’t have to hold petty grudges.

Except the truth was that he was neither mature nor confident, and he could tell that Bahorel knew he was worried about seeing Enjolras. Still, he wasn’t ready to let the mask slip just yet, so he forced a smile and opened a can of beer for himself.

“That’s great,” he said. “Really great.”

Maybe if he said it enough times, it would be true.

 

 

 

“I really can’t stay late,” Joly said, eyebrows furrowing. “Exams start next week. I really, really can’t stay late.”

Grantaire didn’t pay much heed, not because he didn’t care what Joly had to say, but because Joly had been repeating himself since he arrived at the party five hours ago. It was past midnight now and Joly showed no signs of getting ready to leave, although that might have had more to do with Bossuet and Musichetta, who were performing some kind of dance on the coffee table. Jehan,whose pockets were filled with sketches he’d plucked off the walls was clapping along while Bossuet flailed his arms about, and Grantaire could hear Courfeyrac’s voice swelling over the music, just a little out of time with the actual lyrics.

The party was in full swing, and Grantaire was pleasantly surprised by how non-confrontational Enjolras was being. Granted, they’d exchanged greetings when Enjolras arrived and hadn’t spoken since, but at least Enjolras had acknowledged his existence. And for once, there had been no snarky comments about his drinking. Grantaire had made it through several cans of beer and a few glasses of whiskey and Coke, all without having to deal with eye rolls and snide remarks about alcoholism.

“I really can’t stay,” Joly said again. Grantaire patted his knee.

“Relax, Jolllly,” he said soothingly. “Party tonight, study tomorrow. It’s the circle of life.” He started humming the Circle of Life under his breath, a grin tugging at his lips. Joly looked conflicted, but nodded after a moment.

“Right,” he said. “Party tonight, study tomorrow.” And with that, he got to his feet and joined Musichetta and Bossuet on the coffee table, nearly sending Bossuet crashing to the floor. Grantaire’s grin widened and he leaned back in his seat contentedly. It was amazingly freeing not to have to worry about his assignment anymore.

Of course, there were still written exams to deal with, but they could wait for another day. Like Grantaire had told Joly, tonight was for having fun.

Eponine appeared and settled into Joly’s recently vacated seat, a scowl on her face. Grantaire shook his head at her.

“Between you and Joly,” he said, “how is a guy supposed to enjoy his own party? Come on, ‘Ponine, who peed in your cornflakes?”

“That only works in the morning,” Eponine retorted, but it lacked the usual venom. “It’s Cosette.”

Grantaire felt like an idiot then. Of course Eponine was upset—this was the first time she’d seen Cosette with the rest of their group, and just like the last time, she was getting along with them like a house on fire. Right now, she and Courfeyrac were loudly cheering as Bahorel and Feuilly arm-wrestled. Marius, meanwhile, was staring at Cosette like a lovestruck puppy, and poor Eponine was being forced to watch it all unfold before her eyes. Grantaire fumbled for her hand and squeezed it clumsily.

“She’s a terrible person,” he whispered conspiratorially, feeling guilty, but knowing that it was his duty as Eponine’s best friend to trash talk the new girlfriend. She didn’t seem comforted by it though—instead, she stared at him like he’d lost his mind and yanked her hand back.

“What are you talking about, you moron?” she said. “She’s wonderful. That’s the problem.”

“Ah,” Grantaire said, pretending to understand. Sometimes, where Eponine was concerned, it was better just to go along with whatever it was that she said and pray she didn’t realise you were bluffing.

He didn’t pass the test this time. Eponine rolled her eyes. “I wanted her to be awful,” she explained. “If she was awful, then I could hate her and not feel guilty about it. But she’s great. I want to be her friend.” She grimaced. “It’s sickening.”

Grantaire frowned. “Does that mean you’re over Marius?”

Eponine shrugged noncommittally and reached over to grab his cup. “Getting there,” she said, downing the last of the whiskey with a flourish. “But I’ve decided that I’m not going to be one of those girls who hates other girls for petty reasons.”

“Good for you,” Grantaire said. “Girl power and all that jazz.” He punched his fist in the air. “Fight the patriarchy!”

Eponine rolled her eyes and got to her feet, and Enjolras chose that moment to approach Grantaire.

“Can we talk?” he asked tersely. “Somewhere quiet. I can’t hear myself think in here.”

Eponine raised her eyebrows at Grantaire and excused herself to get another drink, and so Grantaire was left alone with Enjolras. He wondered why Enjolras had decided to come over—they’d had a good thing going, with the whole not talking aspect. Not speaking to each other guaranteed that there wouldn’t be an argument. Grantaire had been content to sit back and admire Enjolras from afar the way he had done before they became friends. Now, though, all bets were off, and Grantaire felt apprehensive as Enjolras led him into the hallway.

“Look at the lovebirds!” Courfeyrac crowed as they passed. “Sneaking off for some privacy!” He whistled loudly at them. Grantaire made a mental note to hit him the next time he got a chance.

The hallway was quieter than the apartment and cooler, too. The weather was warming up, but summer still hadn’t fully set in, and Grantaire found himself tugging the sleeves of his hoodie down to cover his hands. Enjolras was wearing a thin red t-shirt, but he didn’t seem bothered by the temperature. Something else was bothering him though. His brows were knit tightly together and the vein on his forehead that always appeared when he was giving a particularly rousing speech was visible at his temple. Grantaire shuffled from one foot to the other in nervous anticipation.

It was entirely unfair of Enjolras to look so good. How on earth was Grantaire supposed to concentrate on the discussion when all he wanted was to tug Enjolras forward and kiss every inch of him? He shook his head slightly, but it was hard to rid himself of the fantasy when Enjolras had yet to speak. At last, though, Enjolras cleared his throat, and the silence was broken.

“I wanted to talk to you about what happened at Joly’s."

“Well, obviously,” Grantaire said, unable to resist the sarcastic response. “It’s not like I thought you asked me out here for tips on interior decorating.”

Was that the ghost of a smile on Enjolras’s face? Surely not.

“Well,” Enjolras said, “your colour palette is impressive, but actually…” He trailed off, almost hesitant. Except that couldn’t be right. Grantaire had known Enjolras for almost a year now, and if there was one thing he had learned, it was that Enjolras was never hesitant. Passionate, yes, forceful, without question, but hesitancy and Enjolras just didn’t belong in the same sentence. “I wanted to apologise.”

Grantaire’s jaw slackened. “Apologise,” he repeated dumbly, and Enjolras gave a curt nod.

“I was out of line,” he said. “It was a bad day, but that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have said the things I said, and I didn’t mean them. I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Grantaire was too taken aback by the fact that Enjolras was actually apologising to him to register the apology itself, but when he did, he narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t say things you don’t mean, Apollo,” he said softly. “Certainly not in the heat of the moment.”

Enjolras’s face flushed. “I—”

“I appreciate the apology,” Grantaire interrupted. “But please don’t insult my intelligence by lying to me. You meant every word that you said. There’s no need to beat yourself up over it, Enjolras—I’ve always suspected that was how you felt about me. Hearing you actually say it, well-” he laughed “—that, I probably could have done without. But it’s not like it was a surprise. More of an inevitable confirmation. It’s just the way things are between us.”

Enjolras frowned and Grantaire was seized with a sudden desire to kiss the frown away. He swore internally, hating himself for his pathetic fantasies; if he really tried to kiss the frown from Enjolras's face, he was fairly certain that all he would earn for his trouble would be a blow to the head.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire almost laughed, all thoughts of kissing forgotten in the aftermath of Enjolras's statement. For someone so intelligent, Enjolras could be remarkably dense. Grantaire liked debating with Enjolras at meetings and needling him on nights out, but when things got personal, he withdrew. Was it really possible that Enjolras had never noticed the slump of his shoulders after they had a particularly bad argument, or the way his quips became more self-deprecating after Enjolras had pushed him to the edge? Even if he hadn’t noticed before now, surely what had happened at Joly’s would have enlightened him to the way Grantaire felt. He’d stormed out of the apartment like a protagonist in a romantic comedy, for God’s sake.

But Enjolras was still waiting for a reply, so clearly, Grantaire wasn’t as much of an open book as he thought.

“Of course it bothers me,” he said, avoiding Enjolras’s eyes. “But it’s what we do, isn’t it? Argue. Fight. Make everyone else uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Enjolras said. This time, Grantaire did laugh.

“Doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Enjolras said, beginning to sound frustrated. “If you would just stop—”

Grantaire shook his head and held up his hand, cutting Enjolras off again. “Stop,” he said. “Right now. I don’t want another argument, Enjolras, not tonight. This is our last chance to have fun before exams start. Let’s just call it even, okay? I accept your apology.”

Enjolras didn’t push the matter any further, so Grantaire should have been relieved, but he couldn’t deny that the party had lost its appeal by the time they returned to the apartment. He couldn’t think about celebrating anymore. His buzz had all but vanished, and it was a relief when his friends finally filed out of the apartment one by one.

 

 

 

Maybe it was because he’d used up all of his stress on his inspiration assignment, but the two weeks of exams passed fairly easily for Grantaire. None of his papers were easy, but none of them were too challenging, either. When he left his last exam, he felt reasonably confident that he’d passed everything. The summer stretched before him, long and unburdened with schoolwork.

He headed straight for the Musain, sure that he would find at least one of his friends there. Joly and Combeferre were still stuck in exam hell for another week, but everyone else was finished today, and if Grantaire knew his friends, they would gravitate towards caffeine after taking a test.

To his surprise, he found Eponine and Cosette sitting at a table together, laughing over iced coffees and looking like best friends. Cosette was the first to notice him arrive and stood, raising her hand to get his attention. “Grantaire!” she called, beckoning him over. She all but pushed him into the seat next to Eponine and then went to the counter to order him a drink. Grantaire raised his eyebrows at Eponine, who smiled and hid her face in her drink.

“Not that it isn’t great to see the two of you getting along,” he said carefully, “but is this another Pontmercy situation? Should I be worried?”

Eponine laughed. “I don’t have feelings for Cosette, you jerk,” she said, kicking at his feet under the table. A light blush coloured her cheeks. “Actually, I’m seeing someone.”

“Anyone I know?”

The blush deepened. “Montparnasse.”

Grantaire wanted to be supportive of Eponine more than anything—she’d been pining after Marius for too long, and anyone who saw him with Cosette would be able to tell how futile her feelings were. But her blush when she revealed Montparnasse’s name said it all. It wasn’t embarrassment or excitement that made her flush. It was shame.

Montparnasse was the guy Eponine had dated at the beginning of the school year, and it had been a disastrous experience for everyone involved. Montparnasse was, at best, flaky and unreliable. At worse, he could be downright dangerous. Besides, he wasn’t a very nice guy to begin with—he’d spent most of their relationship tearing Eponine down, until finally, she discovered that he was sleeping with a bartender from the Corinth and ended things.

The day Eponine told him she was no longer with Montparnasse had been one of the happiest of Grantaire’s life. He wasn’t entirely sure he could fake being happy for her. But she was a big girl and she could make her own decisions; unless she was in trouble, it wasn't his place to intervene.

“You’re sure about him,” he said, more of a statement than a question. Eponine gave a quick nod.

“He’s changed,” she said softly. “Not—not drastically, but he’s working on it. And I’m only nineteen, it’s not like I have to settle down right this second. We’re just having some fun.” She bit her lip. “It’s helping me forget about Marius, R.”

“Just be careful,” Grantaire said. Cosette returned then with a comically large iced coffee, topped with a mountain of whipped cream and what looked like three different flavoured syrups. Grantaire blinked at it.

“You’re too skinny,” Cosette explained. “Drink up!”

He sipped at it apprehensively, muttering about diabetes in a cup even as the coffee passed his lips. Eponine and Cosette returned to what they’d been discussing before Grantaire arrived, their exams. They both felt like they’d done well enough to pass, though Cosette seemed disappointed in how her music practical had gone. Something about not being able to hit a high note—if Grantaire was honest, he wasn’t paying full attention. His eyes remained firmly fixed on the door of the cafe, waiting to see if anyone else would arrive.

He was so focused on the door that it took him a minute to realise Eponine was talking to him.

“What?”

“I said he’s not coming,” she repeated. “Enjolras. His last exam isn’t over until six.”

“I wasn’t looking for Enjolras,” Grantaire said immediately, although it suddenly occurred to him that that’s exactly what he was doing. Stupid, really, but he couldn’t stop thinking about their exchange in the hallway. The way Enjolras had looked when he apologised, his own traitorous inner voice whispering at him to kiss Enjolras even as Enjolras admitted his apology was based on lies. It had been two weeks since the party and the entire experience still felt surreal to him.

“Sure you weren’t,” Eponine said knowingly, and Grantaire had to remind himself that hitting friends was generally not a good idea. Cosette smiled at him and changed the subject. In that moment, Grantaire had never been more grateful to Marius Pontmercy for introducing this angel into his life.

“What are your plans for the summer, Grantaire?” she asked.

“Well, I’m staying in the city,” he said. There was no way he was going back home for the summer—his mother would either spend the three months ignoring him entirely or else berating him for not living up to her expectations, and neither one of those sounded like an appealing option. “I have to get a job,” he added thoughtfully. “Feuilly and Bahorel aren’t going to let me slide on the rent forever. And I could use a car.”

“They’re hiring here,” Eponine said as she traced the rim of her empty cup. “Get me a resume and I could put in a good word.”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen myself stooping low enough to be a barista…” Grantaire said, grinning when Eponine swatted at him. “Calm down, ‘Ponine, it was a joke. I am eternally indebted to you, oh great one.” He pretended to bow to her, earning an eye roll in response.

Cosette shook her head at the two of them, smiling. “Well, I’m going to Switzerland with my dad,” she said. “I invited Marius to come along, but he seemed… scared.”

“He’s terrified of parents,” Eponine said. “Thinks they’re all genetically programmed to hate him.”

“Which is ridiculous,” Grantaire added, “because Pontmercy is _exactly_ the kind of boyfriend most parents want for their daughters. He’s harmless, he’s a good student, he comes from money. But the way he goes on, you’d think he was in a chain gang.”

“Oh, I don’t think Papa would mind that,” Cosette said nonchalantly. “He’s an ex-con, after all.”

Grantaire spluttered into his coffee while Eponine let out a burst of laughter so loud that their table shook. Cosette just continued to smile innocently at them, until finally, Grantaire stopped laughing and blinked at her.

“Were you… were you being serious?”

“Yes, he did time a few years ago for embezzlement,” Cosette said. “It was a long time ago, before I was born, but it’s really shaped the way he looks at the world.”

Eponine held her hand up for a high-five. “We should start a club. My parents have been in and out of prison my whole life." She paused, considering. "My dad might actually be there now, I haven’t called home in a while.”

Grantaire drained his coffee and got to his feet. “And on that note,” he said, “I think I’ll leave you two to bond over your parents’ criminal activities. I have a resume to write.”

They were still giggling when he left.

 


	5. Getting Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis take a trip to the lake and Grantaire puts his foot in his mouth once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I want to say thank you again to anybody who's reading this, commenting, bookmarking, or just paying any attention to it at all. I hope I don't disappoint too horribly with the last few chapters!

The first month of summer seemed to pass much faster than the two week exam period. True to her word, Eponine had gotten Grantaire a job at the Musain, and he spent his days pouring coffee and his nights painting. It was relaxing and exhausting all at the same time, but he wasn’t complaining. He’d managed to contribute to the rent payment for the first time in months, and he was already halfway to being able to afford a junky little car. Mostly, that was because he worked full-time hours whenever he could. It wasn’t as if he was missing out on anything by not hanging out with his friends—most of them weren’t even in the city anymore.

Courfeyrac had disappeared the moment exams ended to spend a few weeks with his family. Jehan was currently touring the country looking for inspiration for his poetry. Cosette was still in Switzerland with her ex-con father, and Feuilly had announced plans to go to Australia (that one would never happen. Feuilly was terrified of flying). Grantaire wasn’t sure where Combeferre and Marius were, only that they had been gone for two weeks and weren’t expected back until the weekend. 

So their little group was smaller than usual, and on the rare occasion that they did find time to spend with one another, the atmosphere was different. Maybe it was the absence of Courfeyrac and his constant jokes, but things seemed more serious. It didn’t help that Eponine never seemed to find time for them anymore. She was constantly with Montparnasse, a development that Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a little put out by. With Eponine so busy, Grantaire found himself spending most of his days off with Bahorel and Feuilly in the gym. Bahorel was teaching him how to box—he’d shown a surprising affinity for it. He didn’t think he’d ever be as good as Bahorel, but he was proving surprisingly capable of holding his own.

“I thought the idea was to bandage your knuckles after they got injured,” he said. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, Grantaire’s first day off of the week, and he and Bahorel were in the gym. They weren’t alone—a few dedicated fitness enthusiasts were pumping away on the treadmills and rowing machines, but Grantaire figured that most people in the city were taking advantage of the sunshine. He and Bahorel were sitting cross-legged on one of the foam mats in the boxing area while Bahorel showed him the proper way to wrap his knuckles.

“This way, you don’t have to worry about them getting injured,” Bahorel told him. He was surprisingly delicate when it came to things like this. Delicate was a word that Grantaire would never normally associate with Bahorel, but he was careful with Grantaire’s hands, probably remembering the crack they’d heard last time they practiced. Grantaire had played it off like it was nothing, but working the espresso machine at the Musain had been more difficult than usual this week.

When Grantaire’s knuckles were safely taped up, they got in the ring to throw a few practice punches. Once again, Grantaire was amazed by how different Bahorel was when he was boxing. He was normally scattered, and at times, hyperactive, but as soon as he was in the ring, his face became a mask of pure concentration. 

Grantaire had no such luck—the only way he was able to quiet his brain was with a well-timed drink, so after a few minutes of silent practice, he broke.

“When’s Courfeyrac coming home?”

“He’s due back this week,” Bahorel grunted, dodging a punch and jabbing one of his own in Grantaire’s direction. “Uh, Monday, I think.”

“He’ll want to do something,” Grantaire said decisively. “A whole month of spending time with his family. He’s going to want a party.”

But it turned out that Courfeyrac had something better in mind. Grantaire woke on Monday morning to three missed calls and six texts from his long absent friend.

_**Courfeyrac, 9:06a.m.** _

_I HAVE RETURNED FROM WAR_

_**Courfeyrac, 9:12a.m.** _

_I have returned from war with SPOILS_

_**Courfeyrac, 9:45a.m.** _

_Don’t you have a job now? Shouldn’t you be getting up at a reasonable hour?_

_**Courfeyrac, 10:01a.m.** _

_Forget it. We’re celebrating my return in style this weekend. My aunt has a holiday cabin on Lac d’Annecy and she said we could have it._

_**Courfeyrac, 10:03a.m.** _

_EVERYONE’S COMING_

Grantaire pressed the “return call” button and a few minutes later, he found himself greeted by Courfeyrac’s voice.

“R!” Courfeyrac cheered through the phone. “I was beginning to wonder if I should send out a search party. You have a job now, don’t you know that respectable working class folk never sleep past eight?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve always been a rebel,” Grantaire said. “What’s this about a cabin?”

“Oh, it’s great,” Courfeyrac replied. “I used to go there with my family all the time when I was a kid. My aunt is crazy rich, so it’s absolutely huge, and it’s right on the lake. I mentioned that most of my friends were too broke to afford a holiday this summer, so she offered it to us free of charge. And everyone’s back this weekend, so I thought we could all go up and kickstart the summer in the right way.”

“It’s a month into summer, Courf.”

“Yes, well, I haven’t been here to enjoy it,” Courfeyrac laughed. “Look, I’ve just spent a month with my extended family. I’ve had to deal with people asking what my plans are after college, why I haven’t got a girlfriend, and why I won’t cut my hair. I want to get drunk by the lake, so are you in or not?”

There was no question. Grantaire grinned into the phone. “I’m in. Friday, Saturday, Sunday? I’ll just have to book the days off.”

He left for his shift at the Musain an hour later and found Eponine already behind the counter, nodding glassy-eyed as she listened to a blonde woman with a power haircut reel off her order. She perked up when Grantaire arrived, wrapping her arms around him as soon as her customer had left.

“Help me,” she said dramatically. “I’ve been here since eight and for some reason I can’t recall, I agreed to work all day today.”

“Well, I might have some news that would cheer you up,” he said, wriggling out of her embrace and heading for the espresso machine to make himself a coffee. It was one of the benefits of working at the Musain: free drinks, whenever he wanted them. “Courfeyrac’s invited all of us to the lake this weekend for a reunion party.”

“The lake?” Eponine repeated, immediately looking happier. She bit her lip. “Montparnasse and I were supposed to—”

But Grantaire held up a hand and shook his head. “No,” he said sternly, “nope, no way, ‘Ponine. I haven’t seen you outside of work in weeks. Courfeyrac is giving us a free vacation and you’re going even if I have to drag you there, kicking and screaming. Clear?”

She smiled. “Clear.”

 

 

 

Grantaire had never gone on vacation with his friends before—he and Eponine had taken a few ill-fated camping trips during high school, but anything else had always been out of their price range. Jehan had tried to organise a skiing trip over Christmas, but no-one had been able to afford it. The idea of spending a whole weekend with his friends sounded blissful after weeks of doing nothing but working at the Musain. And despite the awkwardness that had permeated their relationship for the past few weeks, sleeping in the same house as Enjolras was bound to have its advantages. Just the thought of seeing Enjolras, ruffled from sleep, maybe even _relaxed_ for once, made Grantaire’s stomach flutter.

Marius, Combeferre and Joly were the only ones in their group with cars, so on Friday morning Grantaire found himself sandwiched into the backseat of Joly’s tiny Toyota, with Eponine on his left and Bossuet on his right. Musichetta was sitting in the front seat beside Joly, fiddling with the radio and loudly complaining about the selection of music in the car.

“It’s tragic, Joly,” she said, holding up a CD and sighing. “S Club 7? Steps? Do you even know what decade it is?”

“I like it,” Joly said amicably. “It reminds me of being a little kid.”

“You’re hopeless,” Musichetta said, but leaned over to kiss him on the cheek anyway.

Eponine made a gagging noise in the back of her throat. “None of that,” she warned. “Not in front of Grantaire and I. We singletons can’t be around any of that relationship nonsense or else we’ll get a rash.”

“Aren’t you seeing someone, ‘Ponine?” Musichetta said, blatantly ignoring Eponine’s reprimand and reaching into the backseat to twine her fingers around Bossuet’s. “Grantaire mentioned something about Montparnasse. Are you back together?”

Eponine glared at Grantaire, who simply widened his eyes innocently and gave a little shrug. He’d felt that it was his duty to inform the rest of the group that Montparnasse was back in the picture—not because he didn’t think Eponine could take care of herself, but because things hadn’t ended so well last time. After the break-up, Montparnasse had harassed the whole group in an attempt to get Eponine to talk to him. Grantaire wanted to believe that Eponine was telling the truth when she said he’d changed, but he also didn’t intend to take any chances.

“Not exactly,” Eponine said. “We’re having fun. Trying it out. It’s not like we’re married.”

“Playing the field,” Bossuet said, nodding his head wisely. “Smart choice, Eponine. You should be having fun while you’re still young. I wish I’d thought about that before— _ouch_ ** _,_ ** Chetta, I was kidding!”

“No fighting in the car!” Joly said, alarmed.

“Don’t worry, Joly, we’re almost there,” Musichetta said. “I can wait until we get to the cabin to beat some sense into our boyfriend.”

The cabin turned out to be even nicer than Courfeyrac had described—really, it was much too large to be called a cabin. It was all polished wood and shiny steel and clear, sparkling glass, and Grantaire had never felt more afraid of a building before in his life. He found himself hovering on the porch, half afraid to breathe in case he broke something.

Theirs was the second car to arrive. Marius, Courfeyrac, Jehan and Cosette were already in the kitchen, making mimosas and teasing each other about something that had happened on the drive up to the lake—after a few minutes of careful listening, Grantaire deduced that Marius had somehow managed to get turned around on the motorway and had been heading back to the city without anyone realising it.

“And yet you still made it here before us,” Grantaire remarked.

“Well, Joly drives like an old lady,” Eponine said, grinning at Joly when he made to protest. “I know, I know, Joly, car safety is very important and there’s no point risking our lives to get to our destination a little faster.” Her grin widened. “We heard that lecture three times on the way up here.”

“He’s not wrong,” came a voice from the hallway, and a moment later, Combeferre walked into the kitchen followed by Bahorel, Feuilly and a very attractive, very rumpled looking Enjolras. Grantaire was caught off guard by how good Enjolras looked. It had been a month, after all, since they’d really seen each other, and Enjolras’s beauty had a way of surprising you.

He was dressed far more casually than normal, in a pair of dark denim jeans, a red flannel shirt and a dark t-shirt with what looked like the word “patria” scrawled across it in cursive. His hair had grown out a little since the last time Grantaire had seen him ( _at the pre-exam party,_ his mind whispered treacherously) and maybe it was just the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, but his eyes looked even bluer than normal. Grantaire downed the rest of his mimosa, thinking suddenly that maybe this trip hadn’t been such a good idea.

He’d thought that getting to see Enjolras in a relaxed environment, away from college and Les Amis meetings and all of that work that Enjolras was so obsessed with would be a good thing. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, exactly. Maybe that seeing Enjolras on vacation would humanise him somehow? But here he was, obviously wearing what passed for vacation clothes by Enjolras’s standards, lugging a suitcase and actually _smiling_ , and all Grantaire could think about was how soft his lips looked and what kind of swimsuit he’d packed in that suitcase.

God, he was a mess. He suddenly felt an intense need to be alone for a minute, away from the smiles and laughs of his friends.

“Courf, where can we leave our stuff?” he asked, hoping the question didn’t sound as abrupt to everyone else as it did to his own ears.

“Ah! Right, rooms!” Courfeyrac said, clapping his hands. “That probably should have been first order of business. So, uh, there’s five bedrooms, two with double beds and three with twins. Usually I would call dibs on one of the double beds, but I’ve graciously decided to let Marius and Cosette have one, and Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet have the other.” Marius’s cheeks immediately reddened, and Courfeyrac winked at him before he continued. “I thought everybody else could just double up with whoever they want.”

“That’s not enough beds,” Eponine pointed out.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac said, blinking at her. “Yes, you’re right.” He paused. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”

“... You didn’t think it might occur to someone when people wanted to go to sleep?” Enjolras said blankly. “Or were you expecting two more beds to just magically appear in the next twelve hours?”

Courfeyrac threw his hands up in the air and Grantaire prepared himself for the performance that was coming. “Ungrateful!” Courfeyrac wailed dramatically. “I’ve worked hard to pay for this lovely holiday cabin—“

“That your aunt gave you for free,” Enjolras cut in.

“—And I risked life and limb to drive you across treacherous terrain—”

“Every single route from here to the city is smooth and perfectly laid out,” Enjolras said.

“And you didn’t drive, because you’ve failed your driving test three times,” Combeferre supplied helpfully.

It was always fun watching Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras bicker. They’d been friends for years, for even longer than Grantaire and Eponine had known each other, and yet Courfeyrac was still able to rile up the other two with his over-the-top performances. He was still wailing about all of the “effort” he’d put into arranging the trip.

“—And instead of thanking me, you ungrateful swines are fixated on the fact that two of you will have to share a sofa bed—”

“There’s a sofa bed?” Combeferre said, sharing a look with Enjolras.

“—I’ve never seen behaviour like it—”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said loudly. “No-one’s complaining about sleeping on a sofa bed. Why didn’t you _say_ there was a sofa bed?”

Courfeyrac blinked at him, theatrics forgotten. “Did I forget to mention that?”

“You’re impossible,” Combeferre said, but he was smiling. “I’m happy to take the couch.”

It was determined that Enjolras would share the couch with Combeferre, and with that out of the way, Courfeyrac showed everyone to their rooms. Grantaire and Eponine were given a room on the ground floor, with seafoam coloured walls and a view overlooking the lake. It was stunning. Grantaire found his fingers twitching for his sketchbook as he looked out over the water, but Eponine had other plans in mind. Instead of unpacking, she’d thrown both of their suitcases open, grabbed the first swimsuits she could find, and was now hustling Grantaire into the bathroom down the hall with strict instructions not to forget to put sunscreen on his chest.

“Burnt nipples aren’t a good look for anyone, darling!” she trilled from the other side of the door.

 

 

 

Their first day of vacation ended in true Courfeyrac style, with loud music and plenty of alcohol and attempts at awkward party games. Courfeyrac had already tried more than once to persuade everyone to play spin the bottle, but both times he’d been subject to booing and paper airplane attacks. Now he was trying to start a game of Never Have I Ever, but convincing the group was proving difficult—Musichetta maintained that this was just another one of Courfeyrac’s attempts to trick everyone into kissing everyone else, and the thought of revealing secrets about his personal life in front of Cosette had made Marius blush so hard that his skin matched the red cup he was drinking out of.

Grantaire was opposed to Never Have I Ever for the simple reason that it was one game that always ended with Enjolras huffing at him in disapproval, and so far, he’d done a remarkable job of avoiding Enjolras’s disapproval today. They had actually managed to have a fifteen minute discussion by the lake with neither one of them making a sarcastic remark or insulting the other. It was oddly freeing to speak to Enjolras without the undertone of bitterness that usually accompanied all of their conversations. Grantaire wasn’t sure how he’d managed to get through an entire day without pissing off Enjolras, but he thought that it probably had something to do with what had passed between them at the pre-exam party. Maybe Enjolras really was tired of the way their exchanges always devolved into petty arguments.

Whatever the reason, Grantaire wasn’t in a hurry to sacrifice the truce between them for the sake of entertaining Courfeyrac, especially when he knew for a fact that the only reason Courfeyrac wanted to play Never Have I Ever was because he wanted to probe Jehan for answers to questions he was too afraid to ask. The others had yet to notice the way Courfeyrac kept sneaking glances at the poet, but Grantaire knew a lovestruck fool when he saw one. He’d been one himself for almost two years now, after all.

“Never Have I Ever has nothing to do with kissing, Chetta,” Courfeyrac pleaded. “It’s just stories! Harmless, embarrassing, possibly life-ruining stories! Who wouldn’t want to share those with friends over shots of tequila?”

“Fine, fine, alright! If you can promise me that no one’s going to force me to make out with Bahorel again, I’m in,” Musichetta said, grinning at Bahorel’s squawk of protest. Courfeyrac clapped his hands and started to herd everyone into a circle on the floor, ignoring Marius’s stammered suggestion that they play something else. Grantaire found himself sitting beside Cosette, who smiled at him with the dazed look of a girl who had had one too many vodka cranberry cocktails.

“Poor Marius,” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning against Grantaire’s shoulder. “He thinks I’m going to be horribly scandalised by this game, but he’s probably going to be scandalised by _me_.” She giggled, pressing her nose against Grantaire’s neck, and despite his reluctance to play the game and ruin whatever it was he and Enjolras had going today, he couldn’t help but smile.

Courfeyrac took a moment to list off the rules—unnecessary, since most of them had played it before, but it was worth it just to see Marius squirm at the thought of Cosette hearing all of his embarrassing stories—and then sat cross-legged beside Combeferre and placed an empty water bottle in the centre of the circle. It spun once, twice, and landed on Eponine, who arched her eyebrow and held her beer bottle high.

“Never have I ever flashed a stranger,” she said, earning a catcall from Bahorel as she raised the bottle to her lips. Courfeyrac took a gulp of his homemade pina colada (Jehan’s signature drink, which Courfeyrac had been too polite to turn down) and to Grantaire’s surprise, Cosette raised her own glass. Marius blinked at her, mouth agape, and a ripple of laughter ran through the circle at his expression. They paused the game so that Cosette could relay the story of her first week at college, where she and her friends from the literary society had gotten caught up in a bitter rivalry with the archery team. The rivalry had culminated in a game of paintball, where Cosette had flashed their enemies in order to provide a distraction that helped them win the game.

"That's playing dirty," Musichetta accused, but she was grinning.

Bossuet was next, and he furrowed his brow before saying sheepishly, “Never have I ever cut class.”

They all drank this time, save for Enjolras and Combeferre. “That was terrible, Bossuet,” Feuilly informed him. “You’re supposed to be trying to embarrass your friends, damn it.”

His protests backfired on him a moment later, when the bottle landed on Grantaire, who grinned widely at him. “Never have I ever soiled myself on a date,” he said smugly, and Feuilly flipped him off before downing some of his beer. Cosette let out a burst of laughter and Feuilly hurried to explain himself.

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds,” he said, glaring at Grantaire. “It was the end of the date, the bathrooms at the restaurant were out of order and I’d had a lot of wine. And I told you that in confidence, you son of a bitch.”

“There are no confidences in Never Have I Ever,” Grantaire said, but he regretted it when the bottle landed on Feuilly next round.

“Never have I ever had sex in a public place!”

Grantaire wanted to murder him. He tipped his glass back slowly, not even wincing at the burn of the vodka at the back of his throat, but afraid to look at Enjolras to see what his reaction would be. To his surprise though, Enjolras was looking at the ground when he allowed himself a glance.

It was Joly who finally broke the silence. “As opposed as I usually am to talking about other people’s sex lives,” he said, “I think this is one of those occasions of Never Have I Ever where we’re supposed to demand a story.”

“Which one?” Grantaire deadpanned, but regretted it immediately when he saw Enjolras shake his head.

“There’s more than one?” Bahorel said, amused.

_At least someone's enjoying this,_ Grantaire thought bitterly.

“No, I was joking,” he said airily, hoping that no one could tell how much he didn’t want to reveal the details of the story. “Look, it wasn’t like it was a live show or anything. I was on a date with a girl, we were both… eager, and it just so happened that we were at an art show in a gallery with a lot of empty rooms. It wasn’t half as scandalous as it sounds. No one walked in on us, no one heard us, and she kept her dress on the entire time.” He took another swig of vodka. “Nothing scandalous at all, really.”

“How long ago was this?” Musichetta asked, eyebrow raised.

“Er… just after Christmas,” Grantaire said, squinting as he tried to recall. “Yeah, I was seeing Claudette then. Nice girl. Shame she found God and joined a convent.”

“What?” Marius said, eyes widening.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “It’s a joke, Pontmercy, she’s still a godless heathen like the rest of us. She broke up with me because ‘bisexual guys are more likely to cheat’. Really, I think I was just too much for her in the bedroom. Or gallery, as the case may be.”

“Excuse me,” Enjolras said suddenly, getting to his feet and crossing to the patio door. Grantaire watched him go, a knot tangling itself in his stomach. There went their uneasy truce—as he’d predicted, Enjolras was repulsed by him. He downed the rest of his drink and then reached out to spin the bottle, but he didn’t hang around to see who it landed on.

Enjolras was standing on the porch, leaning on the railing and looking out over the lake with a furrowed brow. Grantaire hung back by the door for a minute, taking in the tense set of Enjolras’s shoulders, the glint of the moonlight on his hair, the shape of his back through his thin t-shirt. He thought about what it would feel like to just cross the deck and put his arms around Enjolras, ease the tension out of his shoulders, kiss him until tension was the furthest thing from his mind—but of course, Enjolras didn’t want that. Enjolras would never want that, not with Grantaire.

But he wanted them to get along. That’s what he’d said at the pre-exam party, and even if he had been repulsed by the details of Grantaire’s sex life, at least he hadn’t hung around to berate him for it. That was progress, or at least Grantaire thought so. After a moment’s hesitation, he joined Enjolras at the railing, careful to keep a respectful distance between them.

“It’s gorgeous,” he said carefully, keeping watch on Enjolras’s expression from the corner of his eye. Enjolras nodded, and if Grantaire wasn’t mistaken, his shoulders relaxed just a little bit.

“It is,” Enjolras agreed, and then, “I don’t understand the point of playing a game where the sole intent is to humiliate your friends.”

“It’s supposed to be funny,” Grantaire said, but when he thought about it in Enjolras’s terms, Never Have I Ever didn’t sound appealing in the slightest. He shrugged. “Courfeyrac’s just using it as a way to get closer to Jehan, anyway. He wants him to spill all his secrets so he knows exactly how to seduce him.”

“You noticed that too, then.”

“How could I not?” Grantaire snorted. “He’s always staring at him with that goofy look in his eye. Oh, God, Enjolras. We have another Marius on our hands. The end is nigh.”

By some miracle, Enjolras laughed. “You know they’ll be even worse if they get together,” he said. Grantaire could still hear the smile in his voice. “Jehan’s all about the romance.”

“And Courf’s all about public displays of affection,” Grantaire added, and too late, he remembered what had driven Enjolras onto the deck in the first place. The tension was back in his shoulders. Grantaire cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Look, about what Feuilly said in there—”

“I don’t need any more details,” Enjolras cut him off. “It’s—sorry. It’s your business what you do on your own time, Grantaire, but I happen to think these things should be between partners. It’s not something I like to discuss.”

There was something in his tone that said there was more to his discomfort, but Grantaire couldn't quite identify it. He sensed that he should drop the subject, but he couldn’t let it go that easily. “I respect that,” he said quickly, “but I just wanted you to know that it’s not something I’m proud of. I don’t broadcast it. It just sort of happened—I didn’t actually intend on telling anyone other than Feuilly.” He smiled ruefully. “My fault for pissing him off, I guess.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Enjolras said. There was something strangely hollow in his voice, but before Grantaire could ask what was wrong, he was heading for the door. “We should get back inside, it’s getting cold.”

 


	6. Tensions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis enjoy their lakeside holiday while Enjolras continues to baffle Grantaire.

Eponine was a snorer, so Grantaire slept fitfully that night. He woke more than once to the sound of Eponine’s snores, his own thudding heart, and the thrum of unwanted thoughts in his head. If he was being perfectly honest, it wasn’t Eponine that kept waking him up, it was Enjolras. He kept thinking about him on the porch, with that furrowed brow and the strange, hollow voice, and wondering why Enjolras had sounded so defeated was killing Grantaire. Maybe Enjolras’s dim view of Grantaire had worsened since Joly’s movie night. Maybe he’d given up all hope of Grantaire ever amounting to anything, and all of their interactions from now on would feature this expressionless Enjolras who deflected rather than engaged.

_You don’t have to explain yourself to me_ , he’d said. But since when did Enjolras let Grantaire away without explaining himself?

He got out of bed at eight, unable to stand the thought of another few hours of tossing and turning while Eponine slept peacefully in the bed beside his. A cup of coffee would do him good, and maybe he could drink it on the deck with that perfect view of the lake. It didn’t occur to him until he was already padding into the kitchen, wearing only a pair of boxers and a paint-stained t-shirt, that Enjolras and Combeferre were sleeping on the couch in the open-plan kitchen and living room. By then it was too late—he paused in the doorway, faltering, and found Enjolras sitting at the breakfast bar looking pensive.

He hadn’t noticed Grantaire yet, so there was still time for him to duck away, go back to his bedroom, avoid being alone with Enjolras and the possibility of that hollow, wrong voice he’d used last night. But Grantaire could smell coffee, freshly brewed, and his stomach chose this moment to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. If he went back to his bedroom, he might die of starvation and caffeine deprivation.

There was really no other choice.

He held a hand up as he walked into the room, but whether it was in greeting or a warning for Enjolras to hold back, he wasn’t sure. Enjolras looked immensely surprised to see Grantaire awake, but immediately got to his feet and poured him a cup of coffee. Grantaire was touched by the gesture, and he took a moment to note that sleep-rumpled Enjolras lived up to his expectations, and then some—his curls were messy, looking more gold than blond in the sunlight, his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms were creased. The silence hung between them in the air, loaded with tension, until finally, Enjolras gave a small smile.

“Good morning,” he said, and Grantaire almost sagged with relief at how normal he sounded. “I didn’t know you were capable of waking up before lunch time.”

“Surprisingly capable, Apollo,” Grantaire said, choosing to omit the fact that he’d barely slept at all. “Capable of a lot more than you give me credit for, actually. Did you know that I speak fluent Polish? Can juggle six plates at a time? That I’m descended from English royalty?”

“None of those things are true,” Enjolras said, sipping his coffee. Grantaire grinned.

“Alright, they’re not, but I _am_ surprisingly capable at making pancakes, and I’m starving. Have you eaten yet?”

Enjolras looked surprised. “I didn’t know you could cook,” he admitted. “Pancakes would be great.”

It was strangely domestic, Grantaire rattling around the kitchen for mixing bowls and frying pans and telling Enjolras what ingredients he needed in a hushed tone, so as not to wake Combeferre, who was still sleeping soundly on the sofa bed. Grantaire could imagine doing this with Enjolras every morning, and getting distracted from the pancakes by a hand on his waist and lips at his chin—

But these were not the thoughts he should be having while he showed Enjolras the correct way to crack an egg one-handed.

“It’s all in the wrist,” he said, resisting the urge to grasp Enjolras’s hand and show him exactly how to do it. “Don’t overthink it, or you’ll end up with a bowl full of egg-shells.”

Enjolras was adorably focused as he tapped the egg against the glass, but Grantaire’s instructions were for naught. The egg cracked and pieces of shell dropped into the bowl along with the white and the yolk. Enjolras made a noise of frustration.

“I told you not to let me do it,” he said. Grantaire could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m a kitchen jinx. I’ve burnt soup before, you know.”

“Tragic,” Grantaire said, handing Enjolras a spoon to scoop out the shells. “But eggs are tough to figure out, Apollo. I’ve seen worse.”

“Really? Worse than this?” Enjolras held up the spoon and Grantaire laughed.

“A hundred times worse,” he said. “I was seeing this guy last year who decided to hard-boil some eggs for breakfast, but he forgot that he left them on the stove. Long story short, they exploded, and I kept finding pieces of shell in my kitchen for weeks afterwards.” He laughed. “Those shells were in my kitchen for longer than our entire relationship lasted. He wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but God, he was pretty.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Is this okay?” Enjolras asked, shoving the bowl at Grantaire for his inspection, and too late, Grantaire realised his mistake. Enjolras had made it perfectly clear the night before that he didn’t want to hear any details about his sexual conquests—Grantaire hadn’t realised that it applied to any information about his dating habits, as well.

They kept cooking, but the atmosphere in the kitchen had changed. Enjolras juiced oranges silently while Grantaire mixed the pancake batter, and they didn’t speak again until Grantaire had to ask Enjolras to pass the flipper.

Combeferre woke up just as they were stacking the first few pancakes onto a plate, and after that, their friends trickled into the room one by one, lured by the smell of breakfast and coffee. Feuilly joined Grantaire at the oven and started to fry up some bacon and Cosette got started on enough toast to feed a small village, and a few minutes later they were all perched on various seats and countertops throughout the kitchen with piping hot plates of food and steaming mugs of coffee. Courfeyrac gave a round of applause from his seat at the kitchen table, where he was currently sitting in _very_ close proximity to one Jean Prouvaire.

“I’ve never been more grateful to have friends who can cook,” he announced, spearing some bacon and pancake onto his fork. “Bravo, gentlemen. And you too, madam chef.” He tipped an imaginary hat at Cosette and she immediately dropped into a curtsy, grinning.

Grantaire ate his own breakfast in considerably lower spirits than before, painfully aware of Enjolras’s presence on the other side of the room. He’d made a beeline for Combeferre as soon as he woke up and seemed eager to be as far away from Grantaire as possible.

He continued to avoid him for the rest of the morning, even as everyone lounged by the lake together. Grantaire was trying immensely hard to pretend he didn’t care, but something must have shown on his face, because Courfeyrac abandoned his breath-holding contest with Bahorel to flop down beside him on the sand.

“You’re making that face you make when Enjolras is mean to you,” he said, nudging Grantaire’s leg with his foot. “But I happen to know that it was the two of you who started that _fantastic_ breakfast this morning, so why the long face?”

Grantaire sighed. “Nothing new, Courfeyrac,” he said glumly. “I’m a disappointment, as usual. I made the mistake of revealing too much about my personal life again and our fearless leader has decided he doesn’t want to be seen with me anymore.”

“Ah, the details of your sordid sex life have damaged his pure and innocent ears,” Courfeyrac said, nodding sagely.

“More like the details of my sordid culinary adventures,” Grantaire quipped. Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose and Grantaire gave another sigh. “Sorry. Never mind. He’s just been weird around me since that night at Joly’s, before the exams. It’s like he’s trying so hard to avoid arguing with me that he’s decided it’s just easier to avoid me altogether. Whenever I say something that would ordinarily rile him up, he disappears. It’s like trying to argue with a brick wall.”

“Well, you would know,” Courfeyrac grinned, and Grantaire swatted at him for remembering the time that he’d spent a solid ten minutes arguing with a wall in the Musain before realising there was no one standing in front of it.

A shriek pierced the air before Grantaire could reply, followed by a loud splashing noise and a lot of spluttering. The source of the commotion was Jehan, who had been unceremoniously dumped into the water by a cackling Feuilly, and was now frantically squeezing water out of his braid. Grantaire gave Courfeyrac a sidelong glance and noted the small smile on his lips and the fondness in his eyes. This time, Grantaire was the one to nudge Courfeyrac.

“So,” he said, “Jehan.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only to anyone with half a brain,” Grantaire said teasingly. “Dating friends is a minefield, Courf.” He paused. “Dating your _roommate_ is even worse. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Is it ideal? No, of course not. But I can’t help it, R. I’m not going to push him into anything, but if he gives the slightest indication that he wants the same thing I do…” He smiled. “I’m going for it.” His smile faltered and he fixed his eyes on Grantaire’s. “You should too, you know.”

“Go for it with Jehan?” Grantaire said, deliberately playing dumb. “He’s great, but he’s not my type.”

“No, your type is tall, blond and snarky, and I know that you know what I mean,” Courfeyrac reprimanded him. He hesitated. “Has it ever occurred to you that the reason Enjolras hates hearing about all the dumb shit you do is because he likes you?”

Grantaire couldn’t help it—he let out a burst of laughter, attracting the attention of Eponine and Musichetta, busy competing against Joly and Bossuet in a sandcastle building contest. He waved away their questioning looks and shook his head before replying to Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras tolerates me,” he said, taking care to keep his voice down in case any of the others were listening. It was bad enough that Courfeyrac had invited himself to Grantaire’s pity party. He didn’t want anyone else to make an impromptu appearance. “You and I both know that the only reason he even does that is because the rest of you would mutiny if he kicked me out of Les Amis. Enjolras and I will never be friends, and I’ll spend the next two years of college mooning over him like I did this year and last year and fucking strangers to be okay with it. It’s just a fact, Courf, like the grass being green or kittens being cute. I’ve made my peace with it, you should too.”

Courfeyrac shook his head and got to his feet, dusting sand off of his swim trunks. “You’re wrong,” he said simply, and with that, he went to rescue Jehan from Feuilly and Bahorel’s practical jokes.

That was just fine by Grantaire. Pity parties were meant for one, anyway.

 

 

 

The second night at the cabin proved more relaxing than the first. Immediately after dinner, Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre had set up shop at the kitchen table to discuss plans for a protest they were staging next month and they’d been poring over charts and to-do lists ever since. Without Courfeyrac to rile them into having some sort of a party, everyone was just drifting about doing their own thing. Marius and Cosette had excused themselves to go for a walk around the lake, Eponine and Bahorel were engaged in an intense game of Go Fish, and Joly had roped the others into playing some of the board games he’d found in his bedroom. Grantaire had declined invitations to join them and was observing instead. He was somewhat surprised to discover that Bossuet’s famous unlucky streak didn’t seem to extend to board games—they were on the third round of Trivial Pursuit and so far, Bossuet was undefeated.

“Yellow wedge, bitches!” Bossuet crowed, earning his fourth wedge of the round and shimmying in his seat. “I think I’ve found my new path in life. I’m so much better at this than law.”

“By all means, drop out and become a world famous Trivial Pursuit champion,” Musichetta said dryly, though she slung an arm around Bossuet’s shoulders as she spoke. “Joly and I will support you in your old age.”

Grantaire resisted the opportunity to make a “kept man” joke—too easy—and turned his attention instead to the kitchen, where Enjolras and Courfeyrac were talking in hushed tones. Whatever they were discussing was definitely getting to Enjolras. Even from the other side of the room, Grantaire could see the flush creeping up Enjolras’s neck. He must have stared a beat too long, because the next thing he knew, Enjolras was looking up and locking eyes with Grantaire, and Grantaire suddenly got the uneasy feeling that _he_ was the topic of discussion.

Enjolras stood then and crossed the room to where Grantaire sat on the couch. Eponine was peering over her cards; Jehan had clamped his hand down on Musichetta’s to stop her from throwing the dice. Grantaire was painfully aware of the fact that all of the attention in the room had turned to him and Enjolras.

He was going to _kill_ Courfeyrac.

“Can we talk?” Enjolras said shortly, and Grantaire nodded, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as he followed Enjolras down the hall to the room he was sharing with Eponine. Enjolras closed the door behind them and Grantaire was overcome with the urge to jump out the window.

He wasn’t going to, of course, but it was sounding more appealing by the second.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Grantaire quipped. At Enjolras’s blank stare, he gave a nervous laugh. “We seem to be making a habit of having these awkward private discussions, Apollo. I assume that’s what this is?”

Maybe Courfeyrac had gotten tired of dealing with Grantaire’s hopeless crush and confessed everything to Enjolras. Maybe Enjolras was going to list off all of the reasons why he would never be interested in Grantaire. Maybe Enjolras was going to risk the Les Amis mutinying and kick Grantaire out of the group for having inappropriate thoughts about their fearless leader.

But none of those things happened—instead, Enjolras sighed and looked at Grantaire in a way that made his stomach twist.

“Courfeyrac told me that you think I ‘tolerate’ you,” he said.

Grantaire blinked at him. “Well,” he said, somewhat lost for words, “ _yeah_. I thought that was obvious to everyone in the group, if I’m being perfectly honest. It’s not like we’re braiding each other’s hair and making friendship bracelets.”

“You’re an idiot,” Enjolras informed him, exasperated.

“See, these are the kinds of things you say to a guy when you barely tolerate him—”

“Stop,” Enjolras said. “Stop. I don’t _tolerate_ you, Grantaire. You’re my friend.” He frowned. “Or at least I’ve always thought of you as my friend. I care about you…” He trailed off, hesitating. When he spoke again, something in his tone had changed. He sounded like he was saying words because he should, and not because he really meant them. “I care about you just the same as I care about Combeferre and Courfeyrac and everyone else.”

Grantaire clamped his lips together, hard, for fear of his tongue running away with itself like it usually did. Enjolras claimed to care about him, but the way he'd said it gave the impression that he was holding something back. Whether he was lying or not, Grantaire couldn't say—Enjolras rarely lied, after all. He didn't believe in wasting breath on things he didn't mean. So maybe there was some truth to his words. Maybe he did care about Grantaire in some warped, twisted way, but there was still the fact that they constantly argued, and that it seemed to be Enjolras’s goal in life to berate everything Grantaire did.

“The arguing, though,” Grantaire said. “And you yelling at me all of the time about my poor life decisions. What’s that all about?”

“We argue because we’re both stubborn and sure that our beliefs are the right ones,” Enjolras said immediately. “And I yell at you _because_ I care, you idiot.” His face softened. “When I tell you that you’re wasting your potential, I’m not trying to hurt you, Grantaire. It just frustrates me to see you waste your talent.”

“And all of those comments about my drinking—”

“I stand by those. You may not think you have a problem, but you do.”

“And you want to help me with my ‘problem’,” Grantaire said slowly, “because I’m your friend and you care about me.”

Enjolras stared at him. “Is that really so difficult to understand?”

“Frankly? Yes. Sorry, Apollo, but you can’t deny that you give me more heat than anybody else in the group—come on, is it because I’m really that dysfunctional, or do you just like giving me a hard time? You can tell me if that’s it. Honestly, it would make a lot more sense than this ‘I care about you’ bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Enjolras said, folding his arms. “Please stop saying that.”

“I’m sorry, but you have a funny way of showing that you care, that’s all that I’m saying,” Grantaire said.

“Just because I don’t express my feelings in a way that you consider appropriate doesn’t mean that I don’t have them,” Enjolras snapped. “They’re no less valid because you question their existence. Believe what you want,” he added shortly. “It’s obvious that you’re not going to change your mind, no matter what I say.”

He brushed past Grantaire and left the room, leaving Grantaire standing by his bed, alone and somewhat confused. A tiny part of him was urging him to go after Enjolras and demand to know what was wrong, but his cautious side forbade it. Leave him, it warned. Let him sulk.

Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything to apologise for, anyway. Enjolras was the one who’d gotten annoyed. Let him seek Grantaire out when he wanted to reconcile.

 


	7. Gracie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire falls in love with a car and things between him and Enjolras finally come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thanks again to anybody who's paid this story any kind of attention, and especially people who take the time to comment, bookmark, etc. You're all sweethearts!
> 
> Secondly, little disclaimer: I know nothing about cars. Absolutely zero. I tried to research them for this chapter but got lost in pictures of pretty vintage VW Beetles, so if you happen to notice any glaring mistakes in relation to how cars work, just ignore them. Also I still know nothing about the geography of Paris, so there's that.
> 
> Finally, this is the second last chapter, so I hope it's been a fun ride. Only one left after this (although I may be toying with an idea for a sequel.) Anyway, I hope this one doesn't disappoint!

For the rest of the weekend, Enjolras was cool and distant—not angry, but he used that awful, hollow voice whenever he spoke to Grantaire, and he was careful to make sure that they were never alone together. It made the rest of the trip somewhat disappointing; even while he was having fun with the rest of his friends, Grantaire was constantly looking over his shoulder for Enjolras to see if he could get any reaction out of him, and every time, he was disappointed. When the time came to leave on Sunday evening, he was almost grateful.

Life returned to the way it had been before the weekend at the lake, although now that everyone was back in the country, they saw each other as a group more. At each outing, however, Grantaire couldn’t help but notice Enjolras’s distant behaviour, and as the weeks passed, it grew more and more frustrating. To make matters worse, the others were starting to notice. They’d always been aware of the tumultuous nature of Enjolras and Grantaire’s friendship, but the new atmosphere between them was something entirely different. Enjolras’s short fuse regarding Grantaire seemed to have vanished; every interaction between them now was laced with iciness, and that was when Enjolras deigned to speak to Grantaire at all. For weeks, it was the elephant in the room, the truth that everyone was aware of, but afraid to bring up. It was Courfeyrac who finally said something, three weeks after the trip to the lake, while he and Grantaire played video games in Courfeyrac’s apartment.

“So,” Courfeyrac said as Grantaire blasted the head off of an approaching zombie, “you and Enjolras. Are you ever going to tell me what happened there, or am I supposed to work it out on my own?”

Grantaire, tongue sticking out in concentration, mashed the buttons of the controller and took out another two zombies. “Nothing happened.” He aimed for the last zombie as it headed for Courfeyrac’s character. “At least, nothing important,” he amended.

“So you’re telling me that Enjolras is treating you like a stranger for nothing?” Courfeyrac’s tone was skeptical.

“It’s dumb,” Grantaire said with a sigh, laying down the controller. It was clear that there was no point in trying to continue the game. When Courfeyrac found a topic that he wanted to discuss, he was like a dog with a bone. There would be no deterring him until Grantaire had told him everything that had happened at the cabin, and that was something he really didn’t relish the thought of.

“I have no doubt that it’s dumb,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “It’s you and Enjolras, of course it’s dumb. But I can’t help if I don’t know what mess you emotionally stunted idiots have gotten yourself into now.”

Grantaire gave another sigh and launched reluctantly into the story. He told Courfeyrac everything—starting with the incident at Joly’s party and going right up to the scene in his bedroom at the cabin.

“He’s been off with me ever since,” he finished. “I don’t know if he’s just pissed or if he’s finally gotten sick of trying to be friends with someone who represents everything he hates, but ever since the lake, he’s been acting like we don’t know each other.” He felt Courfeyrac’s gaze on him, sympathetic, and groaned. “It’s ridiculous for me to be upset about this, right? I mean, I should have seen it coming. It was only a matter of time before he got tired of putting up with my shit.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Courfeyrac said immediately. He shifted closer to Grantaire on the couch, tucking an arm around his shoulders. “Look, I know how you feel about Enjolras. If I were in your position I’d be climbing the walls. Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said? He barely acknowledges my existence, and that’s when everybody else is around. Trying to get him alone to talk would take a miracle.”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “You two are insufferable,” he said, reaching for his controller once more.

“I’m not the one ignoring him,” Grantaire pointed out, moody.

“Not reaching out is the same as ignoring,” Courfeyrac said, but his attention was focused elsewhere; he’d started up the game again and was defending Grantaire’s motionless character from a horde of the undead. Grantaire reached for his own controller and started firing shots at the enemy. He thought they were finished talking about Enjolras, but when they reached the end of the level, Courfeyrac gave him a shrewd look. Grantaire frowned.

“What?”

“I’ve known Enjolras for a long time,” Courfeyrac said, his words measured and careful. “So I know what I’m talking about when I say that no matter how he’s acting, he wants to talk to you. The way you’re feeling right now? I can guarantee that he feels the same, if not worse. But he’s a stubborn ass, and you know that as well as anybody. He’s not going to be the one to make the first move. If you want to make things right, you have to be the bigger man. He’ll respect you more for it.”

Grantaire shifted uncomfortably under Courfeyrac’s gaze. “Just shut up and play the game, Courf, yeah?”

“Insufferable,” Courfeyrac repeated, but he didn’t press the matter any further.

They played until Courfeyrac had to leave for work, but Grantaire didn’t head home afterwards. Feuilly was working and Bahorel was at the gym; after his conversation with Courfeyrac about Enjolras, Grantaire didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. Luckily, there was an errand that he’d been meaning to get around to, so he fired off a text to Eponine and then started heading for Joly and Bossuet’s place.

An hour and a half later, Grantaire found himself at a used car dealership with Eponine and Joly. Actually, it was the third dealership that Grantaire had insisted on going to, and Eponine’s patience was wearing thin, but Grantaire was adamant that he would know when he’d found the right car. He wasn’t going to throw his hard-earned money away on some beat-up old Volvo unless it _spoke_ to him.

“Cars don’t speak,” Eponine said irritably. “And I’m sick of wandering around dealerships. I don’t understand why I had to come with you for this, Musichetta and Cosette are shopping right now.”

“You hate shopping,” Grantaire reminded her, tugging her over to a navy blue Toyota. “You’re here because you’re my best friend and you want to be with me when I make the most important decision of my life.” He grinned at her, but her only response was to roll her eyes.

“Then why am _I_ here?” Joly asked, but there was no irritation in his voice. He was smiling, probably because he was more focused on his phone and the texts that Bossuet was sending him than he was on the task at hand. 

“You, my dear Jolllly,” Grantaire said, “are here because I didn’t want to take the bus. And because I value your opinion, of course.”

Not that he was listening to opinions. The only voice he was listening out for was that of his future car. Eponine could roll her eyes all she wanted, but he knew that it would happen.

They lingered by the blue Toyota for a few minutes, and then Eponine wandered in the direction of a silver Audi—one that had seen better days, as evidenced by the busted bumper and rimless tires. Next was a green Honda that still had a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. None of them were right, and as they wandered through the lot, Grantaire began to understand Eponine’s annoyance.

He was about to suggest that they give up and call it a day when he saw it. Parked in the back, almost hidden from view, was the car of his dreams. He grabbed Eponine’s hand and tugged her over to it, ignoring her shouts to slow down.

“This?” she said skeptically when they came to a halt. “Really? After all of that, _this_ is the one you want?”

“It spoke to me,” Grantaire said, beaming at the little mint-coloured oddity. “Joly, would you find the salesman while I guard my baby? I don’t want anybody else snatching it up.”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” Eponine said, but Joly left to find the guy anyway.

The car was perfect: a 1962 Volkswagen Beetle, mint-coloured, and utterly broken down. The thing was falling to pieces; Grantaire was sure that he would end up spending all of his money on fixing it up if he bought it, but something told him that this was the one. He had to have it.

The sales guy seemed surprised at Grantaire’s choice. He looked like he was waiting for Grantaire to back out as he described all of the problems with the car, but nothing he could have said would have made Grantaire change his mind. Sure, he knew nothing about cars and he was about to take on an old one that would need a lot of work, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected; according to the sales guy, it could run fairly well, once he didn’t try to take any really long journeys. And Bahorel was a gearhead. He could have fun with it. He could probably make it as good as new, given enough time.

When the sales guy had finished his spiel, Grantaire gave a wide grin. “I’ll take it.”

Bahorel was like a kid on Christmas morning when Grantaire brought the car home. He started examining it immediately and after about an hour, came to the same conclusion as the salesman; the car was in good enough condition to drive short distances, but until Bahorel fixed it up a little, Grantaire shouldn’t take it out of the city. That was fine by Grantaire. Bahorel seemed fairly confident that he’d be able to have it running as good as new within a week or two, if his connections came through with the parts. Grantaire didn’t ask who the connections were; he figured he was probably better off not knowing.

“Can I take it out tonight?” he asked. “Not far. Just for a quick drive.”

“If I was a more responsible man, I’d tell you to leave it alone until I can fix the engine up,” Bahorel said from beneath the hood. He emerged a moment later, a streak of oil on his cheek and a grin on his face. “But I’m not responsible. Yeah, you can take it out tonight, but keep an eye on things. If it starts to rattle or smoke, turn around and get home. If you do any more damage to it, it’s going to take me longer to fix it.”

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire grinned. He was in the driver’s seat ten minutes later.

It was amazing how smoothly the car ran, considering its dilapidated condition. Getting it home from the dealership had been a breeze, and even now it was almost purring as Grantaire sped through the city. Maybe Bahorel had been wrong. Maybe all the car needed was a quick tune-up; a stereo to replace the old, busted-up radio, new tires, seat covers. Grantaire didn’t know much about cars, but surely a faulty engine couldn’t run this smoothly. As he reached the city limits, he sped up instead of turning back—Bahorel’s words echoed in his mind, but he ignored them, and the guilt that pricked at him as he turned down a back road that led to the countryside.

Everything would be fine. It wasn’t a big deal.

 

 

 

It was a big deal.

A half hour after Grantaire left the city , the engine started to rattle. The smoke that Bahorel had warned him about started to rise from beneath the hood, and Grantaire was forced to pull over to the side of the road. Stricken, he watched the smoke spiral towards the sky. When he finally accepted that the car wasn’t going to magically repair itself, he reached for his phone with a sigh.

Bahorel was going to _kill_ him.

Except Bahorel wasn’t picking up, and neither was Feuilly. Too late, Grantaire remembered that it was a Friday, and that both of them worked on Friday nights. And they couldn’t have helped him anyway—Bahorel might love cars, but he didn’t have his license yet, and neither he nor Feuilly owned a car anyway. He ran through the list of his friends who could drive and tried Joly next, but Bossuet was the one who picked up: Joly was at the library studying and had left his phone at home, because even though it was summer, he didn’t want to fall behind. Marius was his next option, but he was with Cosette, and no amount of pleading could make him duck out early on her to pick Grantaire up from the middle of nowhere.

With a heavy feeling in his stomach, Grantaire dialled Combeferre’s number; his last resort. He and Combeferre weren’t particularly close, probably because Combeferre and Enjolras were best friends, but there was nobody else who could drive and had access to a car. The phone rang for what felt like hours, and Grantaire was beginning to think that he was going to have to spend the night by the side of the road, but finally, someone picked up.

“Hello?” came a curt voice on the other end; a voice, Grantaire realised, that definitely didn’t belong to Combeferre.

“Apollo,” he said, the nickname slipping from his lips, more reflexive than intentional. “Did I dial the wrong number?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, seeming just as surprised as Grantaire was. “You were looking for Combeferre?”

“Uh, yeah,” Grantaire replied, awkwardness creeping over him. Technically, this was the first time they’d spoken to each other, alone, since the weekend at the cabin. If he was being honest, he was amazed that Enjolras hadn’t hung up the moment he realised who he was speaking to. “Um, I was actually hoping he could do me a favour… is he there?”

“No, he’s studying with Joly.”

Grantaire laughed, a note of hysteria making his voice rise a few notches. “Med students,” he said, shaking his head, although it wasn’t like Enjolras could see him. “It’s summer, what are they doing at the library? Fuck. And why doesn’t anybody take their phones with them to the library? What if there’s an emergency? _Fuck_.”

Enjolras’s reply was immediate. “Is there an emergency?”

“No—well, not the life and death kind, but I’m having a bit of a dilemma.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I—“ Grantaire halted, wondering if there was any point in telling Enjolras what the situation was. Maybe he should just call a tow company and beg a ride off whoever came to tow the car.

“Grantaire?”

“My car broke down,” Grantaire said at last. There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“You don’t own a car.”

“As of today, I do,” Grantaire said, sounding proud in spite of himself. Then he caught sight of the smoke outside the window again and he sighed. “But it’s… delicate. It’s old. And Bahorel told me to stay within city limits if I wanted to take it out tonight, but I got cocky and fucked up and now I’m stuck by the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, and I have no idea how I’m going to get home.” He took a breath. “I was going to ask Combeferre for a ride, but—”

“Combeferre left me his car keys,” Enjolras said. “I can pick you up.”

Grantaire’s breath hitched. After weeks of avoiding him, Enjolras was volunteering to spend time with him—in an enclosed space, no less.

“Are you sure?”

When he replied, Enjolras sounded impatient. “I’m hardly going to leave you stranded at the side of the road,” he snapped. “Text me the directions and sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He hung up without saying goodbye, a typical Enjolras move, and Grantaire was left sitting in the car, staring dumbfounded at the dark screen of his phone. He wondered briefly if he had somehow entered a parallel universe in the time it took to leave the city and enter the countryside, a universe where Enjolras didn’t hate him and was not only willing but happy to do favours like pick him up when his car broke down.

He supposed he’d find out when Enjolras arrived.

The sun had been setting when he spoke with Enjolras on the phone. By the time he saw a pair of headlights approaching, it was pitch black outside, and he was immensely grateful that he wouldn’t have to wait alone in the darkness any longer. Enjolras pulled in directly behind Grantaire’s poor, tired Beetle and Grantaire practically jumped out of the driver’s seat, waving his hands like a mad-man.

“Apollo,” he declared dramatically, dropping to his knees as Enjolras climbed out to inspect Grantaire’s car. “Mysaviour, my knight in shining armour, my _hero_ —”

“ _This_ is your car?” Enjolras cut him off, examining the Beetle skeptically. Grantaire got to his feet, immediately defensive.

“It’s a classic,” he said. “And Bahorel said it’s really in much better condition than it looks.”

“The smoking engine would indicate otherwise.”

“Well, that’s my fault,” Grantaire said, shoulders slumping. He draped himself over the car and sighed mournfully. “My poor baby. I pushed her too hard.”

Enjolras stared. “It’s a ‘her’ now?”

“I think her name is Gracie.”

“Well, I think Gracie could use some medical attention,” Enjolras said dryly. “Have you called for a tow yet?” At Grantaire’s sheepish expression, he shook his head. “I thought so.”

He pulled out his phone and dialled, turning away from Grantaire to talk with the tow company while Grantaire continued to stroke Gracie’s roof. When Enjolras turned back, Grantaire was sitting on the ground beside the car, knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said as Enjolras lowered himself to sit beside him.

“We’ll have to wait until they get here,” Enjolras replied, ignoring Grantaire’s words of gratitude. “I can take you home after that.”

“I mean it, Apollo,” Grantaire said. “You’re my hero.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “It’s not that big a deal, Grantaire.”

Perhaps it was a little over-dramatic, but he was grasping at straws. Enjolras had almost seemed like his old self when he’d arrived, but now he was slipping back into the pod person he’d been around Grantaire for the past few weeks. Grantaire could see it in the way he shrugged off the words of gratitude and avoided Grantaire's eyes. They could be waiting an hour for the tow truck, and then it would be another hour back to the city. He didn’t want to be left alone with pod-Enjolras for that long. Anything would be better than that.

He realised suddenly that he was tired of trying to walk this tightrope with Enjolras; avoiding subjects that would make him withdraw, pushing ones that would spark a reaction. He longed for the old Enjolras, who had been easy to draw into debate, who had never spoken to Grantaire with that awful, hollow voice. Things had to go back the way they had been. Even if the didn't, something had to change. Things had to get better.

He thought of what Courfeyrac had said, about Enjolras hating the change in their relationship just as much as he did. He wasn’t sure if he believed that, but maybe there was something to Courfeyrac’s advice about reaching out. If nothing else, Enjolras respected confidence; even if Grantaire made an idiot out of himself by trying to talk about what had happened, maybe Enjolras would look past that and recognise how hard it had been to raise the subject in the first place.

“Hey,” he said quietly. When Enjolras didn’t respond, he nudged his knee against Enjolras’s. “I’m serious. Thank you for doing this. You didn’t have to. Especially since…”

He trailed off, the words dying on his tongue. He wanted to say it, so why couldn't he get the words out?

_So much for confidence,_ he thought bitterly. They sat in silence for what felt like hours, until finally, Enjolras cleared his throat.

“Especially since what?”

Grantaire swallowed and tried again. “The past few weeks,” he said, suddenly grateful for the darkness so Enjolras couldn’t see the look on his face. “Things have been weird. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hung up on me.”

“I would never do that,” Enjolras said, sounding snappish. There was a pause and then he spoke again, softer this time. “Do you really think that I would do that?”

“Well,” Grantaire said, blinking. “Yeah.”

Enjolras laughed bitterly. “See, Grantaire, that’s the problem with you,” he said. “You think the worst of everybody.”

Grantaire frowned. “I don’t.”

“No? Maybe it’s just me then. You clearly have a very low opinion of me.”

“What makes you say that?” Grantaire demanded.

“What you said to me when we were at Courfeyrac’s cabin, for one thing,” Enjolras said, bitterness cutting his words. “You think I tolerate you. You think I get off on telling you that you’re a terrible human being. And now this? You honestly think that I would leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to get home? None of that implies confidence in a person’s character, Grantaire.”

Grantaire blinked. “That… none of that is about _you_ ,” he said slowly. “It’s not you that I have a low opinion of, it’s _me_.”

“Low self-esteem might be one of your defining characteristics, but you’re a liar if you say that you think of me the same way you think of Combeferre and Jehan and everybody else,” Enjolras snapped.

Grantaire didn’t know how to reply to that, because Enjolras was right—just not in the way that he thought he was. Of course Grantaire thought of Enjolras differently, but it wasn’t because he had a low opinion of him. It was the opposite. Grantaire put Enjolras on a pedestal, probably more often than he should, but he couldn’t help it. Grantaire, have a low opinion of Enjolras?

The idea was laughable.

He tried in vain to think of a way of responding that wouldn’t give away his true feelings, but before he could, the headlights of the tow truck appeared. Enjolras practically leapt to his feet; he exchanged information with the tow guy, gave him his number, and curtly informed Grantaire that he could use his roadside assistance membership card, since he obviously didn’t have anything set up yet.

Within a few minutes, they were in Combeferre’s car, speeding back towards the city, and Grantaire worried that he’d missed his chance to make things right. Enjolras was silent as he drove, tight-lipped and with a furrowed brow, and with each minute of silence that passed, Grantaire grew more anxious that all he’d done was make things worse.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. It was clear now that his relationship with Enjolras was never going to go back to the way it had been before, and he'd ruined his chance to change things for the better. So he didn’t have anything to lose anymore. How did the saying go? He had nothing to lose, but he had everything to gain.

Not that Enjolras would ever feel the same. But it would be worth baring his soul if it would prove to Enjolras that he thought the world of him.

“You’re right,” Grantaire said quietly, before he could talk himself out of it. Enjolras’s head turned, almost imperceptibly, although his eyes remained on the road. Grantaire took a deep breath. “I don’t think of you in the same way as the others. I never have.”

“And there it is,” Enjolras said. He sounded resentful.

“Please,” Grantaire said, closing his eyes. “Let me finish.” He waited, and Enjolras didn’t speak. “Jehan, Joly, Eponine, everybody else, they’re more than just friends. I love them like my family. But you… you’ve always been different.”

“Grantaire, I don’t really feel like listening to you list the reasons why you don’t consider me good enough to be your family,” Enjolras interrupted. Grantaire snorted.

“For God’s sake, can you shut up and let me speak? I’m trying to tell you that you’re _more_ than family to me. I don’t think of you in the same way as the others because the idea of us being related kills me. I don’t have a low opinion of you, you stupid, eloquent, annoyingly attractive _ass_ , I think of you more highly than I’ve ever thought of anybody in my life. You’re incredible. I'm in awe of you. You're the best person I know and I'm constantly criticising myself for daring to think about you, because someone like me shouldn't be allowed to think about someone like you.” He stopped, cheeks burning. “So—so there. That’s it.”

He waited for Enjolras’s reply, but he was silent. He simply kept on driving, eyes fixed on the road ahead. For a moment, Grantaire wondered if he’d even heard his confession. Maybe he’d hallucinated it. Worse, maybe Enjolras had simply chosen not to listen.

Suddenly, he regretted deciding to make his love confession in a car that he had no hope of escaping for the foreseeable future.

Or maybe he did—a moment later, Enjolras made a hard left and pulled into a side road, stopping the car. Grantaire waited for Enjolras to kick him out and make him walk home. He probably deserved it, after what he’d just said. But to his amazement, Enjolras did no such thing. Instead, he took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned to face Grantaire.

“You’re an idiot,” he said simply. Grantaire stared at him.

“Not the response you expect from a tragic love confession,” he muttered, half to himself. Enjolras laughed, a loud, cheerful laugh—the kind of laugh that Grantaire hadn’t heard from him since before the weekend at Courfeyrac’s cabin. He frowned. “Alright, I get it, Apollo, I made an ass out of myself. There’s no need to rub salt in the wound, for Christ’s sake.”

But then Enjolras was shaking his head. “You,” he said slowly, a smile tugging at his lips, “are the antithesis of everything I believe in. You’re cynical, you’re unambitious, you’re downright self-destructive, and if I had any kind of common sense, I wouldn’t care about you as much as I do.”

“If this is your version of the ‘let him down gently’ speech, I’ve got to tell you that it could use some work,” Grantaire said. Enjolras shook his head again.

“For God’s sake, can you shut up and let me speak?” he said, but he still had that smile on his face as he echoed Grantaire’s words from before. “I’m not trying to let you down gently. You told me how you feel. I'm trying to return the favour.” At Grantaire’s blank look, he laughed again. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“It might help,” Grantaire said. Enjolras grinned and Grantaire waited for the explanation, but it didn’t come.

Instead, Enjolras leaned forward and cupped his hand around Grantaire’s cheek, drawing him in for a kiss before Grantaire knew what was happening. Alarm bells sounded in his mind as Enjolras’s lips touched his; half of him was revelling in the kiss, while the other half warned him that this was too good to be true. Enjolras was joking. It was a cruel prank, and just when Grantaire gave in and let himself believe that it was real, Enjolras would kick him out of the car and make him walk all the way back to his apartment. It would be better to stop things now, before he got too caught up in it.

But Enjolras was persistent; his lips moved against Grantaire’s, coaxing him to kiss back. He brought his other hand up so that he was framing Grantaire’s face, but still Grantaire didn’t move. Eventually, Enjolras pulled back and made a noise that was half a groan and half a chuckle.

“Are you going to kiss me back, or should I start the car again?”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Grantaire said matter-of-factly, torn between trying to decide if he wanted to kiss Enjolras again or demand answers. “Are you making fun of me?”

“I would never. Not about this.”

“There’s no way that you would be interested in me. You’re… you’re like Kobe beef and I’m McDonalds hamburgers. It just doesn’t make sense.”

Enjolras sighed. “We really need to work on your self esteem,” he murmured, leaning in so that his lips were almost brushing Grantaire’s again. “I’m not making fun of you,” he said, his breath warm against Grantaire’s skin. “I’m telling you that I _care_ about you. And I want you to kiss me.” When Grantaire still didn’t move, he groaned. “R.”

It was the nickname that did it—Enjolras was the only one who never used it. It sounded strangely intimate coming from him, even more so with the fact that there was less than an inch separating them. Grantaire still wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t an elaborate set-up, but he was weak—admittedly, self-control had never been his thing.

He kissed Enjolras, softly at first, still half-afraid that he was going to pull away and laugh, but he didn’t; if anything, he pushed Grantaire further, tugging at his shirt to press their bodies closer together and coaxing Grantaire’s mouth open with his tongue. If they hadn’t been in Combeferre’s car on a dark side road, Grantaire thought that Enjolras might have started to remove his shirt—but they were, and he didn’t. Eventually, they pulled away from each other, and Grantaire’s green eyes blinked at Enjolras’s blue ones in the darkness.

Enjolras was smiling. “That’s better.”

 


	8. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire finally have their shit together, basically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it: the final chapter! I won't say much except thanks again to everybody who took an interest in this little fic of mine. It means a lot to know there are people who actually enjoy my take on the e/R story, and I hope this is a fitting enough end for you. Or a fitting end to this part of the story, anyway - I've already started working on a sequel :)
> 
> Anyway, enough of my ramblings - we all know what you're really here for ;)

Grantaire had thought that he would be desperate to get out of the car when they reached his apartment, but he found himself not wanting to leave when Enjolras pulled up to the kerb. Now that he’d broken down the icy wall that had stood between them for the last few weeks, he wanted to make up for lost time. Now that he knew how Enjolras felt—even if he still had trouble believing it—he wanted to speed things up. Talk. Kiss.

Other things.

Enjolras was looking at him expectantly. Grantaire smiled, sheepish. “I don’t want to leave,” he admitted, and a matching smile flickered across Enjolras’s face.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Combeferre is staying with Joly and Bossuet tonight. You can stay at my place, if you want.”

There was no contest,

“Drive,” Grantaire said immediately. Enjolras pulled away from the kerb with a chuckle and within a few minutes, they were climbing the stairs to Enjolras’s apartment, hands linked. Grantaire couldn’t help marvelling at their intertwined fingers as Enjolras unlocked the door—everything about this evening, he decided, was utterly surreal.

Enjolras’s apartment was small, but cosier than Grantaire might have expected from him. He’d been here once or twice before, but only when he was drunk; now, he was stone cold sober, although he was beginning to question that as Enjolras pressed him up against the front door and kissed him. He was seized with a sudden terror that that was all this was—how terrible would it be to wake up tomorrow with a pounding headache and the knowledge that this had all been a dream? A hallucination brought on by too much tequila and his own pathetic fantasies?

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” Enjolras murmured against his lips. “I can feel you tensing up. You’re second-guessing this again. _Stop_.”

“Hard to stop the habit of a lifetime,” Grantaire quipped, but he was grinning. Enjolras silenced him with another kiss and Grantaire’s body slackened against the wall. It would be so easy to just give in and let Enjolras have his way with him, but as much as Grantaire would have liked that, he felt like it might be important to talk first. “Hey,” he said as Enjolras’s lips traced his jawline. “Not that that doesn’t feel amazing, Apollo, but I think we should talk before we do anything else.”

Enjolras stopped what he was doing and breathed a sigh against Grantaire’s cheekbone. “As much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably right,” he said. Although it had been Grantaire’s idea to hit the pause button, he was still disappointed when Enjolras pressed a final kiss to his cheek and straightened up. “Tea or coffee?”

Grantaire ran a hand through his bedraggled hair. “Got anything stronger?”

Enjolras shot him a look. “That,” he said gravely, “is one of the things we’re going to talk about.”

He headed over to the kitchen and started pulling out mugs and jars. Grantaire took a seat on the couch and watched, a warm feeling settling in his stomach at the sight of Enjolras pouring him tea and arranging a plate of biscuits. He’d never expected to be turned on by such an everyday display of domesticity, but seeing Enjolras’s brow furrow while he stirred the cups was strangely endearing. He smiled as Enjolras approached.

“I like you looking after me,” he commented, accepting a mug of tea and a biscuit.

“Don’t get used to it,” Enjolras said lightly. Grantaire thought that he might sit beside him on the couch, but he settled into one of the armchairs instead. It was probably a good idea—they could talk without being distracted by how close they were to one another. Grantaire folded his hands around his mug, took a sip of tea, and leaned forward, locking eyes with Enjolras.

“So,” he said. “Where do we start?”

“I think it would be a good idea to decide what each of us wants from… this,” Enjolras said carefully. Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“The relationship talk? Already? Usually that’s a third date kind of thing.”

“This isn’t an ordinary situation,” Enjolras replied. He frowned. “Not for me, anyway. I don’t date my friends, Grantaire. In fact, I make it a point to avoid getting romantically involved with people I intend on keeping in my life.”

“Well, that’s gloomy,” Grantaire remarked.

“It’s not a joke,” Enjolras said sharply. He looked away, seeming embarrassed all of a sudden. “You know how I am when it comes to work. I can be single-minded. I’m not exactly hardwired to be in a long-term relationship.” He was avoiding Grantaire’s gaze now, staring fixedly at a hole in the carpet. “I’ve never wanted to push myself to make it work, but I want to now. I want to try it with you, but only if that’s what you want, too. I have no intentions of being another one of your one-night stands. I’m not going to become another tawdry anecdote for Feuilly to call you out on during Never Have I Ever.”

“What about the confession I made to you in that car makes you think I don’t want a relationship with you?” Grantaire said. “Fuck, Enjolras, I’ve been besotted with you since the moment we met. Ask Courfeyrac. Hell, ask any of our friends, they’ll tell you.”

Enjolras looked relieved. “Good,” he said, “good.”

Grantaire couldn’t help himself—he leaned forward and kissed Enjolras, briefly, but enough to incite a smile from the blond.

“How long have you had feelings for me?” Grantaire said, still hovering close enough to Enjolras that he could see the tiny flecks of dark blue in his eyes.

“Too long,” Enjolras told him, but he was grinning. “A few months. I honestly thought that you knew.”

“Is that why you got so pissed at the cabin when Feuilly brought up what happened with me and Claudette?” Enjolras scowled suddenly, and Grantaire laughed. “Oh my God, Apollo, were you jealous?”

“So what if I was?” Enjolras said, moody. “And I hate that nickname.” Grantaire kissed him again, wiping the scowl from his face. When he pulled away, Enjolras’s cheeks were pink.

“Don’t be jealous,” Grantaire teased. “Find an art show, get me a couple of bottles of tequila, and I promise that you and me will have an evening that’s ten times better than what me and Claudette did.”

It was the wrong thing to say—any trace of humour vanished from Enjolras’s face and he pulled back from Grantaire, widening the distance between them. Grantaire sank back into the couch, deflated, and waited for the lecture that was sure to come. How long had it taken him to screw things up? Less than an hour.  _A new record,_ he thought bitterly.

“I worry about you,” Enjolras said softly, and Grantaire blinked. That was not what he had been expecting.

“Say again?”

“I told you at the lake,” Enjolras said, “I lecture you because I care about you. Nobody else wants to say it, Grantaire, but you depend too much on alcohol. I know that it makes you feel good,” he said, rushing his words so that Grantaire couldn’t interrupt. “And I know that you think it makes you better, but sometimes you scare me.”

Grantaire wished suddenly that he hadn’t insisted they talk. If he’d just kept his mouth shut, they’d be in Enjolras’s bedroom right now. But they weren’t, and Enjolras ws looking at him with eyes that were somehow sad and admonishing at the same time.

“I’ve got a handle on it,” he tried, but Enjolras’s expression didn’t change. And maybe Enjolras was right—it was true that he turned to alcohol whenever things turned dark, or even when they were good. Any major emotion was an excuse to open a new bottle. He knew that he made excuses about it, telling himself that he needed it for his art, or that he couldn’t throw a party and not drink. Maybe he did have a problem, or at the very least, the beginnings of one, but he didn’t think that right now was the moment that everything turned around. He was already being forced to accept a new world view, one where Enjolras wanted to be with him instead of yell at him, and the thought of making any other major life decisions made him feel a little queasy.

_Baby steps,_ he promised himself.

“Grantaire?”

“I hear what you’re saying,” he said at last. “Look, I can’t promise that I can change all of that. But I can promise to try. I can do that much, if that’s enough.”

“I just want you to be safe,” Enjolras said, and that warm feeling returned to Grantaire’s stomach.

“Alright,” he said, “that’s enough talking, right?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Enjolras set his tea on the coffee table and moved to sit on the arm of the couch, lips curving into a grin as he leaned down to kiss Grantaire. Grantaire returned the kiss eagerly, reaching up to thread his fingers through Enjolras’s hair. Before long, Enjolras was slipping from the arm of the couch to sit in Grantaire’s lap, his arms winding around Grantaire’s neck, his long fingers tracing the top of his back beneath his shirt. 

Then Enjolras’s hands were moving, first along Grantaire’s chest, and then to the hem of his shirt. He tugged at it and Grantaire lifted his arms, breaking the kiss just long enough to toss his shirt on the floor. Enjolras’s hands were on his chest again, warm fingers skimming across the pale skin. He found one of Grantaire’s nipples and lingered there, pressing, encircling, and then, to Grantaire’s surprise, twisting.

“Ouch,” Grantaire murmured, and when Enjolras whispered an apology, Grantaire grinned. “Who told you to stop?”

Enjolras’s shirt was the next to go and then he wasn’t in Grantaire’s lap anymore, he was straddling it, pressing their groins together as he sucked on Grantaire’s bottom lip. Grantaire pulled away to admire the sight before him, a shirtless, thoroughly debauched Enjolras with kiss-bruised lips and dishevelled hair. If this was how he looked before they’d actually slept together, Grantaire couldn’t wait to see how much more ravished he could look.

“You know, instead of eye fucking me, you could be _actually_ fucking me,” Enjolras said, grinning wolfishly.

“I’m taking the scenic route,” Grantaire told him, leaning in to press his lips to Enjolras’s collarbone. He pressed a string of kisses to Enjolras’s chest, pausing to scrape his teeth against his nipples, inciting a moan from Enjolras.

“Do that again,” Enjolras breathed, and Grantaire was all too happy to comply.

“Bedroom?” he said against Enjolras’s chest. The only response was a frantic nod. Enjolras slid off of Grantaire’s lap, but there was no time to mourn the loss, because then Enjolras was grabbing him by the hand and tugging him towards one of the closed doors off the living room.

Under any other circumstances, Grantaire would have loved an opportunity to examine Enjolras’s bedroom, but right now, he didn’t care about what books were lined on the shelves or whether there were any stuffed animals hidden away. He was too busy staring at Enjolras, who had shed his socks and was now struggling out of his jeans with the same single-minded determination he applied to social justice activities.

It turned out that Enjolras was a boxers guy. Red plaid boxers, with a very obvious tent in the front. Swallowing, Grantaire filed the image away for later use and then found himself tugged onto the bed. This time, he was the one doing the straddling, while Enjolras fumbled with the button of his jeans.

“Kiss me,” Enjolras demanded.

“Bossy,” Grantaire remarked, but he did as he was told. Evidently, Enjolras was good at multi-tasking; he nipped at Grantaire’s lips while he worked on his jeans, and when he finally got them open, Grantaire felt him smile.

“Off,” Enjolras murmured. Grantaire kicked the jeans off and leaned down to shed his socks. When he straightened up, he saw Enjolras staring at him, a smirk playing about his lips. Grantaire wanted to kiss that smirk right off his face, so he did.

Enjolras traced his hands along Grantaire’s chest again and then dipped lower, toying with the waistband of Grantaire’s briefs. Grantaire clenched the bedsheets as Enjolras’s hand slipped inside his underwear and grasped his length, warm and impossibly soft.

“Fuck,” Grantaire bit out. Beneath him, Enjolras gave another smirk and started to stroke, looking pleased when Grantaire’s breath started to stutter. Grantaire moaned and Enjolras leaned up to kiss him again, silencing him. Just when Grantaire was about to come, though, Enjolras released him and pushed him away. Grantaire grasped for him again but Enjolras shook his head. It took a moment for Grantaire to realise what was happening as Enjolras slipped off the bed and started to tug at Grantaire’s thighs.

“Come here,” Enjolras said impatiently. Grantaire didn’t need to be told twice.

Enjolras put his hands on Grantaire’s legs and spread them, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh before taking him into his mouth. Grantaire couldn’t help but let out another moan. Enjolras’s mouth was warm and wet and everything Grantaire could have imagined and more. The sight of Enjolras’s head bobbing back and forth was maybe the hottest thing that Grantaire had ever seen. He clenched the bedsheets again, tilting his head back as the waves of pleasure rolled over him.

It was an embarrassingly short time before he was ready to come, but under the circumstances, he didn’t think he could be blamed. This was the culmination of two years worth of fantasies; if he was being honest, Grantaire was amazed that he hadn't lost it the moment Enjolras had taken off his clothes.

“Apollo,” he said, breath stuttering, “you’re probably going to want to stop that—”

But Enjolras didn’t listen, and when Grantaire came, he swallowed everything, only releasing him when Grantaire went soft in his mouth. When he looked up at Grantaire, the image was obscene—angelic, golden-haired Enjolras, with mischief in his eyes and come coating his chin. Grantaire lay back, breathing heavily. While he was still trying to compose himself, Enjolras climbed up to straddle him again and kissed him messily.

“Good?” Enjolras said in between kisses. Grantaire nodded, laughing, and twisted so that Enjolras was the one lying on the bed and Grantaire was on top.

“Your turn,” he said.

He returned the favour, foregoing the handjob and going down on Enjolras right away. He didn’t think Enjolras minded too much, if the broken moans were anything to go by. Grantaire was half-hard again by the time Enjolras came, but he didn’t care; he was happy to lay next to Enjolras, both of them sweat-slicked and panting as they basked in the after-glow.

“Your mouth is sinful, have I ever told you that?” Enjolras said, breathless.

“You’re one to talk,” Grantaire retorted. He didn’t think he’d ever get the image of Enjolras’s lips stretched around his cock out of his mind. Not that he was complaining. It was a pretty nice image to have imbedded in his mind for all time.

Enjolras laughed and then leaned over to kiss Grantaire, softer and sweeter than before—or at least, it started that way. A moment later, Enjolras was straddling Grantaire again and that devilish smirk had returned.

“So,” he said, pressing a kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “Ready for round two?”

 


End file.
